


An Anthology of Nightmares

by Kamari333



Series: Dr33mtal3 [1]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Abuse, Aftertale Sans | Error (Undertale), Alternate Universe - Dr33mtal3 (Undertale), Angst, Blood, Character Death, Dismemberment, Dr33mtal3 Sans | Dream (Undertale), Dr33mtal3 Sans | Nightmare (Undertale), Drug Withdrawal, Dusttale Sans (Undertale), End of the World, Fear, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Horrortale Sans (Undertale), Implied/Referenced Burning Alive, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Dismemberment, Implied/Referenced Mental Instability, Kidnapping, Loss, Madness, Murder, Mutilation, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Recreational Drug Use, Something New Sans | Killer (Undertale), Starvation, Suicide, Swapfell Papyrus (Undertale), Underfell Sans (Undertale), Xtale Alphys (Undertale), Xtale Sans | Cross (Undertale), _____tale Sans | Ink (Undertale)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:48:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 27,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25482691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kamari333/pseuds/Kamari333
Summary: Nightmare is over a thousand years old, but he only (relatively) recently began acquiring minions to do his evil bidding.Life in Nightmare's Castle doesn't start out too good for anyone.
Series: Dr33mtal3 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1733713
Comments: 323
Kudos: 165





	1. The First Nightmare: Underfell

**Author's Note:**

> Literally, this is just a bunch of ficlets about Nightmare picking minions.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How an Underfell Sans became part of Nightmare's crew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a thank-you to Moth (Biryu13) for beta-ing this chapter. she took this bullet so i could fire it at the rest of you with a smile

Sans stumbled out of his room just in time to escape. He had no idea what was coming, he only knew his years of fighting for his life underground was screaming that he had to _move his bony ass if he wanted to live._ Just as he crossed the threshold of his bedroom into the hallway, there was a loud crash. When he looked back, his whole room was gone.

Not 'gone' as in 'wrecked to hell,' but instead 'gone' as in _'the fucking door no longer existed,_ and the wallpaper where it _used_ to be was flipping different colors in blocky patches like a broken monitor.'

Understandably shaken (rooms disappearing wasn't _fucking normal,_ and anyone who could walk that off immediately was a _god damn freak_ ), Sans skid across the carpet a few feet before he could make his legs do their god damn job. Shaking, he pulled himself to his feet with the help of the banister, then shortcut to the ground floor by the couch. His hands fumbled his phone, the cheep plastic slippery in his sweaty mitts, but he managed to dial his brother's number.

"SANS?!" Came in Papyrus's voice. Sans wanted to pretend what he heard was the distortion of the receiver. He knew better: he knew it was the quiver of panic.

"we got a problem, boss," Sans said, trying to keep calm even as he knew he was _losing his shit._ "my room just. uh. let's just say th' house got remodeled n' we ain't no two bedroom no more."

"GET THE FUCK OUT OF THERE," Papyrus snarled. "HEAD FOR THE-" Whatever he was going to say next was interrupted by the sound of shrieking metal and splitting atoms. The line went dead.

"boss?! boss!!" Sans tried, futile as he knew it was. "fuck!" He snapped his phone shut, rushing out the door and onto the street.

It was a beautiful day outside. The sun was shining. The birds were singing. People were screaming as if they were burning in hell. All up and down the street were patches of fucked up space, broken structures, and webs of blue strings. The sky had turned red, despite it being noon.

Sans had to find Papyrus. He remembered that he was supposed to be taking the kid shopping. They would be in the city, with all the fucking traffic and skyscrapers and fuck all knows what else. Already feeling the strain of the jump he was about to make, Sans popped a monster candy and sidestepped from his front yard into the park downtown. His bones ached from making such a trip, but Sans didn't exactly have the time to do it in spurts.

The sound of shattering glass drew Sans' attention. Blue strings smashed through window after window, door after door, wall after wall after wall. Trees were ripped from the ground. Sans trusted his instincts, dodging the tiny instruments of destruction by the skin of his teeth as he made his way out of the park and towards the mall. Human and monster alike were in a panic as the sky fell, shards of sunset red raining down, leaving specks of black too dark to be the night sky looming above.

It made no sense. The sky wasn't a physical thing that could fall to begin with. It was a light show made by bouncing electrons off other electrons at different angles, _the sky couldn't fall-_

A huge chunk of red something nearly smashed Sans' head in: the only thing that saved him was the light post he was passing under, knocking the trajectory of the unfathomable shard off just enough to land at his feet instead. It looked like stained glass, almost, in a way, if stained glass flickered like a broken television. The jagged edges sparkled with something that wasn't light. Sans made a wide berth to get around it, not wanting to test what touching something like that would do to his body.

When Sans finally made it to the mall, the building was in ruins. Broken foundation and steel beams bent like ugly pretzels littered the ground, decorated by glass and charred clothing. In the center, Sans could see Papyrus standing tall, clutching the small human child in his arms as he fought off a flurry of those blue strings with bone and blaster and sheer stubbornness. His tattered crimson scarf billowed in the wind, a banner of war.

There were already a number of dust piles littering the ground that Sans was confident were not the result of broken architecture. He recognized Undyne's favorite boots and Alphys' coat. He saw a broken flower pot with a wilted golden flower.

More cobalt strings slashed through the air, going right for Papyrus and Frisk.

Sans threw up a hasty wall of bones. The bones broke like toothpicks, but they stopped the strings from getting any closer to Papyrus.

That small victory was short lived. **"LoOk WhO dEcIdEd To ShOw Up!"** came a voice, deep and echoing. Sans looked up to see himself (or something that might have looked like himself, if his teeth were wide and blunt, and his colors had been inverted, and he dressed like creepy handmade doll clothes were the latest fashion trend). The black-boned Sans brought his fingers to his face, clawing into his sockets and scooping out cobalt strings that spooled out from them like tears, matching too horrifically like the streaks that marred his face. **"AnOtHeR _aBoMiNaTiOn_!!!"** The last word sounded like an audio glitch, jumping like static as the freak tossed out both hands, sending the magic strings in all directions. They moved like living snakes, like the tendrils of a beast, each with their own mind, and yet also moved with the strategic precision of a unified hand.

Sans was so shocked he couldn't even dodge.

Papyrus screamed, and the next thing he knew, Sans was holding a weeping child and a dusty scarf, blinking grit from his eyes. Cobalt strings stood out of the concrete in front of him like spears, the only mark to an undug grave for the only brother Sans could ever hope to have.

"papyrus..?" Sans asked the air.

He did not get an answer.

Instead, more strings pierced the back of the child he still clutched in his arms, ripping out their still beating soul. The body spasmed, before going still once the red organ disappeared through a rip in reality. The other Sans laughed, manic and unhinged, before disappearing after it, leaving Sans alone in a universe that was falling apart at the seams, covered in his brother's dust and holding the body of his best friend.

In that moment, Sans felt his only hope begin to crack and shatter like the sky above him. The human might have been able to fix everything, reset the world, but their soul was gone.

 **"You,"** said a voice, too smooth, too melodic to be the same as the creature that had taken everything from Sans. **"You will do."**

Sans turned. Standing there was a creature no taller than the child in his arms, dripping in a viscous ooze that obscured most of his body. The only things untouched by the slime were the pin, a crescent moon holding the creature's cloak in place, the circlet upon his brow, and a single eyelight shining eerily from his left socket.

From beneath the creature's cloak, tendrils of that self same ooze snapped out, curling around Sans. He was made to drop the child as his arms were gripped and wrenched open, then pinned behind his back even as he struggled against them. More tendrils took his legs hostage, and in the dust of his friends, in the ruins of the city he had begun to call home, he was made to kneel before the creature. **"You fought well. I will take you. Your soul will be mine, and it will remain unbroken until I say it may break, even as the world that bore you crumbles."**

Sans snarled. "fuck you!!" What else could he say through his tears, through the ache of losing everything, even his happy ending?

The creature reached out with a skeletal hand, and with a yank more rough and powerful than even Asgore had been, commanded Sans' soul to it, taking it. **"You will obey my will, and live serving me faithfully,"** he continued, drenching the culmination of Sans' being in the ooze of his body, stinking of decay, **"And you will accept the consequences, for both failure and disobedience."**

The ooze burned like hot glue, keeping the fragile thing that Sans had become whole. "what-" Sans gasped through the pain, both physical and emotional. "what are you?"

 **"I am Nightmare, Lord of Negativity. And you,"** the creature smiled, a smile without joy or love. **"You are now my minion. I will call you Fell."**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :3


	2. The Second Nightmare: Dusttale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How a Dusttale Sans became part of Nightmare's crew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one isn't as long but it has feelings in it

Sans stared at the broken body laying at his feet in the snow. Throughout that hellish merry-go-round of fractured spacetime and desperation, seeing a body that did not dust after death had to be the most horrific, grotesque experiences he now had committed to memory.

That was a lie: his brother's face as he held his decapitated skull was the most horrific. That smile cracking with the decay of betrayal; that strangled whisper about a promise Sans knew was already broken; the way the empty, dusty red gloves and scarf lay like streaks of blood in the grey-white of the dirty snow: nothing else could compare, but Sans could lie and say it did. He'd broke so many promises already, what were a few more little white lies?

The inexplicable Snowdin wind picked up, spreading the few fresh dustings of new-fallen snow over the corpse. The frost was beginning to tinge the human's fragile, sensitive skin a fascinating shade of blue (at least where dusty grey and bloody red had not already laid claim). Their limbs had stopped spasming, letting the white finally build up atop them, reminding Sans of old pictures from magazines he'd once found in the dump which depicted humans buried in sand. He watched as more and more of the corpse was buried, obscuring the detestable form until only the shape of the snow poff stood testament of the shallow grave.

Inside him, Sans could feel the prickling burn as his LV ate away the last of him, leaving him as numb as if he could feel the cold of his frozen home. Still, he watched, waited, stood unmoving in his vigil save for the occasional twitch of his sockets.

The human always reset. They always took it back. They never stopped trying. Over, and over, and over, they played their sick, twisted little game. Over, and over, and over, Sans had to fight dirty to stop them.

Stop them from what?

He'd almost forgotten.

He could almost hear his brother's voice, chiding him, "SANS, YOU KNOW VERY WELL WHAT YOU WERE FIGHTING FOR. EXCEPT YOU FORGOT IN THE FIGHTING FOR IT."

He started to chuckle, shoulders shaking. Sans had given up on giving up, but the only solution he'd found had been pyrrhic from its very conception. He'd known that. He'd done it anyway, spiteful and bitter and determined as the demon he struggled against. He'd resigned himself to a sisyphean task of self sacrifice.

Any minute now, the body was going to move.

Any minute. That hateful red light would come right back. It always did.

Sans felt numb. His throat hurt from laughing, like every beat of noise was made by grinding a cheese grater against the inside of his cervical vertebrae.

Was his face damp from melted snow, or splattered blood, or something else? Did it matter anymore?

Why wasn't the body moving?

Why was Sans still in the snow?

Any minute now, things would go back to normal, and he could forget.

His laughter almost drowned out the lie.

" **You.** " The word broke through the silence and laughter and lies like a knife through a spider's web.

Sans did not bother turning around, reacting on reflex: he summoned his blaster, firing on the source of the noise without hesitation. The sound of raw energy burning at the fabric of existence was deafening, the heavy scent of ozone a familiar comfort.

When silence fell, Sans thought perhaps he had simply been hearing things. He was always hearing things. What was more of the same?

Many things happened in the span of fractions of seconds. Sans felt a pressure on his limbs, somethings squeezing them. He attempted to shortcut away, only to be yanked back as if something reached through veils of spacetime to anchor him. Sans attempted to use bone and blaster to free himself. One of his arms was yanked out of its socket, a burst of blunt agony compared to the cutting sharpness he had endured so often before, the novelty of it knocking the wind out of him. He was dragged to the ground, rapidly, repeatedly, like a doll being beaten into the floor, until he couldn't see through the bruises on his vision.

" **Yes,** " that voice all but sang again, a smile audible in it. " **You will do nicely, I think.** "

Sans was yanked up carelessly, his limbs bound to his body. That by itself wouldn't stop his magic (he fought with his hands in his pockets half the time anyway), but something was draining away his energy so rapidly he couldn't focus. Conjuring even a simple attack was like trying to hold water in his boney fingers.

Sans thought he heard his brother's voice, thought he heard "RUN!" and "FIGHT!" but the phantom echo was cut off as if silenced by some outside force.

A damp, slimy hand tilted his chin up. Before him was a monster that looked like the love child of a moldsmol and himself. Putrid ooze dripped from every surface, save a few bits of shiny that decorated it. Sans was drawn to its single glowing eyelight, the color of kindness, the color of poison. The smile it wore never reached it, leaving Sans to fall into a gaze as unfeeling and cold as his own.

" **You will serve me faithfully,** " That voice intoned, low and sweet as the promises Sans had seen shattered by his own hand. As it spoke, its other hand reached out and pulled, calling Sans' soul into it like he once called the TV remote. Sans struggled, more out of principle than any genuine fear. It didn't really matter anymore. His soul was black, impossible to hurt.

That was a lie. The sensation of feeling that ooze cover his soul was excruciating. It burned like nothing else burned, acid and antiseptic, eating away at the shield his LV had built up to leave the soft white of his core being defenseless.

For a flicker of an instant, Sans remembered how to be afraid.

" **You will serve me, and remain unbroken until I say otherwise, even as the world that bore you crumbles,** " It said, smiling with a mirth that spoke of madness. Sans understood that madness, but even he doubted he had ever reached that depth. " **I will call you Dust.** "

A fitting name, since nothing else of Sans's old self was left.


	3. Nightmare 2.5 Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fell meets Dust. Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a short little ditty. nothing to see here.

Fell felt the prickle of his sixth sense, that itch between his shoulder blades that told him he needed to dodge, long before he had any indication that he wasn't alone in the castle anymore. He gripped the rag in his fists a little tighter, trying to suppress his rattling bones. If he moved suddenly, that freak might add another scar to his ever growing collection. 'For insubordination,' he was told. He knew better: he knew what fear tactics looked like.

That didn't stop them from working.

Pushing back the phantom pain that accompanied the memory of his last 'correction', Fell resumed his scrubbing. He had to wash the castle top to bottom in an endless cycle, polishing the odd black stone that smelled more like resin and less like decay with each passing day. On the bright side, there wasn't any furniture to worry about save for an ornate dining table in the grand dining hall and some bookcases in the library on the second floor. On the downside, there was hardly any furniture at all, the castle empty and hollow like it had never been used, echoing the loneliness that hung around Fell's neck to choke him in place of the collar that once gave him hope. Sometimes, when the silence became unbearable, he still reached up to fumble for a buckle that wasn't there, just to hear the click of metal in his fingers. He had to settle for the swipe of his polishing rag instead.

Fell might have thought the castle was designed as the biggest, most ornate sensory deprivation chamber to ever exist, with its black walls that sucked in the light and the candelabras that sat empty and unlit by pain of death (or as close to death as Fell was bid license, even that small mercy taken from him at the last second every time), with its booming silences and empty spaces, if not for the fact that he knew there was a dungeon, and the comparison made him certain that darkness could get darker.

Fell kept his head down and continued to scrub the spotless floor, waiting for the deceptively tiny shadow to come and go.

" **This is Fell. If you find, or make, a mess, he will clean it up. That is his purpose now,** " Said the sickly sweet voice that haunted Fell's every moment, awake or asleep. " **Is that not so, Minion?** "

"yes, sir," Fell answered quickly. Quick answers meant dodging a bullet, assuming Nightmare was in a lucid, rational mindset.

Fell was not so lucky. A tendril of oozing slime wrapped him in a chokehold, lifting him off his knees and well beyond the reach of his feet. " **What did you call me?** "

Fell dropped the rag, staring at the vaulted ceilings. He knew better than to struggle. Struggling meant it would take longer. His hands tried to reach up and grasp the burning ooze, to tear it from his throat, but he kept them from doing so.

" **I am your King. I am your Boss.** " The tendril tightened with each title. " **I am your God. Do not think to insult me with indifference!** "

Fell's eyesight began to blacken and blur. All he could hear was the rush of his own magic and the darkest echoes of madness in his deranged master's voice. Even so, the smallest shred of pride held its ground in Fell's mind. _Like fuck he was calling him 'boss.'_ Only one person in Fell's life deserved that title, irreplaceable in his eyes. He'd die first.

Then he was dropped, left on the floor to gasp for air and shake the caustic substance off him.

" **Here, minion,** " Nightmare all but purred, the irritation lost from his voice as if it had never been. " **You will have this room. Make yourself at home. It is all you will get.** "

Fell heard the click of a door nearby, then the sickening squelch as Nightmare left him.

When Fell looked up, he realized he still was not alone. A skeleton monster stood over him, a hand on the open door. He wore what might have been a blue jacket if it were not covered in grey and red-black stains. One of his eyelights was red, pulsing with the same LV Fell saw when he caught a glimpse of his own reflection. The other eyelight was red-rimmed with a blue core, the overlap burning where the colors mixed into a venomous purple, wafting like smoke.

Someone else to talk to, someone else to share the hell he had been dragged into, stood before him. _He wasn't alone._

"heya," Fell wheezed, putting on his defensive, hopeful smile. He'd been told once it was charming in its own way. "ya new in town?"

Fell's instincts told him to dodge. He listened, shortcutting a few feet to one side just in time. A charred crater replaced him, burned into the floor by the gaster blaster summoned by his newest housemate.

The fucker simply entered his new room and slammed the door, leaving Fell to scrub away the ash and broken pieces of hope that had been smashed the moment of their inception.

He had something in his eye sockets. He pretended he didn't, ignoring the tiny splatters of pale translucent red when they fell to the floor.

He _was_ alone.


	4. The Third Nightmare: Swapfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How a Swapfell (Purple) Papyrus became part of Nightmare's crew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i literally had zero plans for this guy existing until i got to writing this chapter. He took me completely by surprise.
> 
> My apologies as I have never written this guy before

Papyrus stood over the corpse of the human, kicking the knife out of its hand before rigor mortis could set in. That was a fun thing to learn, that human bodies stiffened like old frosting after death. Fascinating.

Serves them right.

Papyrus reached into the pocket of his ratty jacket, pulling out a bag of something grey and powdery. He scooped a small pinch of it, inspecting the tiny granular specks. They sparkled in the dim golden light, refracting in purples, showing how most of the cuts were tiny, tiny triangles, the grains the smallest deltahedrons.

He sprinkled a pinch into a half-prepared joint, finishing the roll before lighting it up with a sigh. Sans hated his smoking habits. He'd be furious. Papyrus could almost hear his scolding.

Maybe if he smoked enough, he'd hear it again, one more time.

Papyrus exhaled, watching the smoke dance in the air. He would. Surely. He just had to wait for the little bastard to do the rewindy thing. It was only a matter of time.

And while he waited, he could smoke in peace.

Papyrus hated smoking in peace: smoking alone was never the same.

The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and Papyrus was halfway through his blunt when the world started ending. Strings of dark cobalt pierced the ground, ripping the castle to pieces around him. One particularly violent string, shimmering in the false dawn, impaled the human, making the body shudder and bounce. It retracted itself just as violently, the still beating red SOUL of the human tangled in it, pulling it through a rip in the fabric of space, never to be seen again.

It took Papyrus a slow, lingering eternity to grasp the implications of what was going on around him. The air buzzed, patches of the floor flickering like broken television screens; one of the pillars vanished, leaving behind twitching patches of white that hummed with its own kind of scream.

Papyrus wondered if it even mattered, in the end. Did anything matter? Not love, not money, not even his best effort; none of it had changed their inevitable end. He blew a smoke ring out from between his teeth, looking at the half-used joint. The fire smoldering where it consumed the paper glowed a poignant purple, letting off sickly sweet fumes medicating Papyrus's sour, inconsolable spirit.

Something something you don't know what you got until it dies, blah blah blah.

He really should be more compassionate, but emotion (however erratic) had been his brother's specialty. That crazy bastard. That lunatic.

He was never going to see him again, huh..?

Papyrus instinctively sidestepped, avoiding a hair-thin string that glimmered like sapphire in the golden hall as it smashed into the floor. A sizable crack spread from the point of impact, and judging from the disturbed smoke, the trajectory of the string would have gone right through Papyrus' ribcage. Instead, it stood out like a steel beam from the floor, letting out a soft twang that could barely be heard over the rising static of the universe falling apart.

What drew the most attention was a tiny bead of moisture, glittering where it clung to the string. It slid slowly down the incline, until its own surface tension fixed it in place in a patch of sunlight, a small twin clinging a few inches above it, like two mismatched diamonds on an unfinished necklace. Papyrus brought his hand up to his face, only partially surprised to feel the trails of damp cling to his fingertips.

He'd always wanted to be numb. Looks like he finally got his wish.

" **You.** " The voice, deep and deep in other ways, carried a nuance to it that finally dislodged a choked sob from Papyrus' chest. He'd recognize the voice of madness anywhere. " **You will do.** "

Papyrus turned, his feet only slipping a little under the roiling tiles as another earthquake rocked the crumbling castle. Standing in the shadow of one of the few remaining pillars was a dripping mess of dark ooze, specular as maple syrup, purple as the echo flowers watered by blood. The singular glowing eye was brighter, hazed at the edges. If not for its shape, Papyrus might have thought it was-

But it could never be-

" **I shall give you purpose, and you shall give me your soul,** " The creature that could never be his brother said.

"dun' gotta soul. sold it fer cash years back," Papyrus said, like he always said. It was the oldest, most terrible joke he always told (even if he'd considered it seriously more than once).

A dripping tendril slid out from under the cloak of the diminutive monster, curling across the floor like a snake as it avoided the strings tearing the world apart, closing the distance between them. " **You can not deceive me, mortal, so think not to try,** " The creature hissed. It trembled, the ooze on its body, ever dark as dried blood, shifting color along with its eyelight, going from that poignant purple to a steely, uncompromising blue.

The haze of madness seemed to grow stronger, like a sound, a smell, heartbreaking in its familiarity. Fucker had to be barely holding on.

The tendril coiled up Papyrus' leg, up his body until it suddenly, sharply invaded his ribcage, calling out his soul without warning, without needing to ask, taking it and holding it out for the creature to inspect at eye level.

It took one step forward, then another, unblinking over its sharp, unhinged smile. " **Sold it for 'cash', did you? How strange. This must be 'cash' then.** " It spoke the word like it was foreign. " **So I will call it 'cash'. I will call _you_ Cash.**"

The ooze that clung to the tendril seeped onto Papyrus' soul, burning, stinking of pain and power and madness, like an overheated wire. Papyrus dropped his joint, unable to look away from the creature that held his entire being in its grip.

The creature, who trembled nearly imperceptibly, whose eyes burned with the cold of madness, a wasteland of internal war that Papyrus would recognize anywhere, who smiled like a knife gleaming in a child's hand, so sharp it was impossible it had not cut itself, shoved Papyrus's now coated soul back into his chest. The tendril holding him fast tightened, and Papyrus felt himself pulled down, down, down and away from the world he once called his home.

He was fine with that. Nothing was home without Sans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone is observant.


	5. The Fourth Nightmare: Horrortale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How a Horrortale Sans became a part of Nightmare's Crew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cried writing this.

Sans scrubs at his hand again, uncertain if he had washed it already, or if the smell is just permanently adhered to his bones. He had tried soap; he had tried alcohol; he had tried bleach, but still the greasy, sticky feeling of burnt human flesh clinging like dried glue to the inside of his palm remains. The smell of human blood is soaked into his clothes, even though he knows he hadn't gotten a drop of it on him. All the red is in the snow, like syrup on shaved ice, like sauce on a chilled plate.

Sans hates how all of his thoughts turn to food. It doesn't make the ache in his soul any better. It doesn't make the nausea subside. The only thing that helps those is, perversely, the bruise on his jaw from where Papyrus had struck him. Sans brushes the back of his hand against it with a vague fondness, sickly grateful he had poisoned enough of his brother's good nature to do this much for him.

He hopes that Papyrus fumbles his way through the roll-call safely, hopes that Papyrus doesn't come home with another bruise of his own, or worse. Sans' skull rings like all the ways it could get worse crushed themselves into a single sine wave. At least it helps distract him from the smell of human flesh that he is starting to think is his memory scolding him from beyond his blackout, but damn if Sans just can't tell what is, what was, and what his mutilated soul is worried could be.

Already bored of the process of washing a hand that can't get any cleaner, Sans dries his bones off using an old dish towel that hadn't seen the kitchen in years. He knows the red staining is from tomato sauce, but the imagery isn't helpful, and he has to avert his eyes from the mindless task.

Sans makes a mental note to thank Papyrus for being so messy in the kitchen, because the split second warning he sees thanks to this ends up saving his life. Sans dodges long before he knows what he's actually looking at, skipping back and through a shortcut from the bathroom to the livingroom just outside (he couldn't go much further anymore, the magic both inside and outside of him depleted dangerously, leaving little left for more interesting feats). He would have preferred to throw himself through the doorway like a normal person, but thats where the attack came from, and the first rule of dodging is to get away from the attack.

Sans stumbles through the shortcut like he trips, twisting to land with his ass on the couch. When he looks up, he has to try a lot harder than usual to figure out what the fuck he's actually seeing. He absently tugs at his empty socket, checking and checking again just to be sure.

What Sans thinks he sees are hundreds of cobalt wires stretched from one end of the room to the other, spearing through the bathroom doorway. His sense of space isn't quite what it used to be, but he can guess that they probably would have gone right through him if he hadn't moved. He can see they went through their busted TV, the screen and frame now doubly full of holes, as well as the east wall where they had gotten in. The pet rock that they have not been able to feed for years is on the floor, its plate smashed carelessly under it.

The table that the rock once sat on is gone, strange blocks of white space flickering like static where it had once been. Sans blinks, rubbing his good eyesocket in the hopes that it will make what he is seeing restore itself to normal.

It does not.

"what the fuck..?"

It is then that Sans hears the screaming.

Knowing that the roll call is usually a quietly intimidating affair, and any screaming should have come exclusively from Undick, Sans grabs his machete on the way out the door. Outside, he has to be quick, slicing through more wires on his way to what is left of the town square.

Snowdin had been in ruin long before today, but this is a different kind of chaos. The cobalt razor wire is flying everywhere, slicing through his friends and leaving only dust behind. Sans arrives in time to see Papyrus and Undick back-to-back, not out of any kind of trust, but forced into parallel corners as they fought off wave after wave of cruel living wire.

Sans spares a moment to regard the motionless body in the snow, a silent, worthless apology struggling in his throat before he bites it back. The human was dead, by his hand or not, and nothing was going to change that.

Instead, Sans throws himself over the corpse, swinging his blade to clear a path to his brother. Papyrus is the only one Sans can see is still alive that he gives a damn about.

"SANS-!" Papyrus calls out in that overly loud, hopeful voice. His smile is mangled and a tad unsightly, but the spirit is there, just like it is in everything he does. He swings the club that Sans had given him with ease and precision, fighting for his life as if it were the happiest he had been in years.

When the razor wire pierces through Undick, passing through her like tissue paper to get to Papyrus from his only blind spot (his back, his friend, his queen), his smile doesn't falter. Sans catches his head before it can hit the ground, his hand already outstretched to grab his brother's now disintegrated arm.

If Sans had been just a little faster, if his arms had been able to reach-

"DO NOT THINK LIKE THAT, BROTHER!" Papyrus chides, voice trembling with what had to be agony. "WHATEVER IT IS, I KNOW YOU DID YOUR BEST!"

"what do you mean, whatever it is?" Sans can hardly believe the conversation he is having. "pap, you're- you're dead..!"

"THEN MAYBE MR GRILLBY CAN MAKE ME INTO TOAST FOR YOU!"

"no, not- not bread, damn it." Sans hears his own voice shaking now. The world is starting to look fuzzy. He shakes his head to dislodge tears he had forgotten he could cry. "i said _dead_."

"OH? WHAT A SHAME. AT LEAST IF I WAS BREAD, YOU WOULD NOT... BE AS HUNGRY WHEN I..."

Dust is sticky. Nobody tells you that, they don't write it in books or sing it in stories, but dust is sticky. It looks like powder, like sand, but if you squint, it's just a little bit shiny. Dust is almost like sugar, and it even tastes a little sweet. The grains cling to everything they touch, right up until they dissolve, sometimes leaving silvery-grey stains behind.

Sans stands there, watching the dust of his brother dissolve on his hands, hating the sticky, graining texture but unwilling to wipe away the last thing left of the only person he could still love.

" **You.** " The voice comes from behind Sans, seconds before the wind picks up enough to bring him the scent of decay. It smells like the taste in the back of his mouth, rotten magic and black bile, so Sans isn't quite as surprised as he really should be when he turns to see someone standing there, dripping in it.

The shock of seeing anyone at all knocks Sans back into something a bit more lucid. He sees the world has gone even more to shit while he had been dissociating. Glitchy, discolored patches of air have replaced buildings, trees, and some of the ground. The snow still left is littered in dust and shards of what looked like glass from a corrupted monitor. Cobalt razor wire litters the area, with patches of black slime drenching the severed ends that lay limp.

" **You will do,** " The voice says again. " **Show me where your soul is, lich, that I may take it as payment for your body's preservation.** "

Sans has no idea what the fuck he's talking about. "what?"

The tiny slime beast is suddenly much closer, tendrils of ooze shooting out to wrap around Sans' body. " **Think me blind? If you will not give it willingly, I will seek it out for myself. That piece ripped from you.** "

Sans' skull aches with the memory. His grin feels like a fresh tattoo, tender, stretched, cut. "left it in new home. that way." He is even nice enough to point, bending his wrist at an odd angle over his bindings to do so. "not that it will do you any good." Sans would make sure it wouldn't.

His hands are starting to itch, pinned to his chest like he was praying, but Sans refuses to scratch them. They could itch in solidarity with his sockets until he finally dies.

The slimy creature inspects Sans like a Judge, his single, piercing green eyelight taking what is left of Sans apart before putting him back again. " **...'Good' you say? 'Good?' There is no 'good' to be done for the likes of me. There is only agony-** " At this, the tendrils began to constrict, squeezing just a little tighter with each word, tighter- " **And despair-** " and tighter- " **And ruination-** " -and tighter, until Sans is certain he is going to break. Sans' ribs creak and strain against the building pressure. " **And now that you belong to me, you will know the horror meant to be inspired by the mere mention of my name a hundred fold!** "

Sans somehow lasts long enough that when the pressure eases, he coughs instead of dusts. His skull is ringing, his face and hands itch, and his ribs ache with what will undoubtedly be an interesting pattern of bruises. Sans feels the two of them start to move, his limp, overly taxed body carted along like a broken doll.

" **From now on, I will call you Horror, to remind you of it.** "

Sans might have laughed if he still had air for it. His new dictator has a better sense of humor than his old one, at least. Sans is not stupid, even if his mind does not work quite right anymore. He knows a fight when he sees one. Whatever happened to the world crumbling around him, this wasn't the one who did it.

Maybe if he stuck around long enough... Petty revenge had always been Sans'- no, _Horror's_ favorite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shed your tears for my amusement in the comments below.


	6. Nightmare 4.5 Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cash meets Horror. Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check the tags and warnings because if it wasn't dark and trigger-y before, this fic sure as hell is now.

Cash was miserable, his withdrawal symptoms yo-yo-ing him back in forth from one extreme to the other. The only thing his body and soul could seem to agree on was that his bones hurt like a 6ft bruise and he wasn't allowed to sleep. Half the time he couldn't tell if the noises he heard were echoes from the dungeon (the _literal dungeon_ , three stories of dank, dark basement filled with wall-to-wall cubical cages) that he had been told was his new life's purpose to guard, or if he was hallucinating again. He swore he could hear the rattling of chains and the hiss of hungry beasts through the ancient wooden door, but it wasn't his fucking job to go down there and look, thanks: Cash's curiosity ended at the second flight of creepy stairs.

At the moment, however, Cash was raiding the kitchen (specifically , the pantry) trying to find something to sate his sudden spike in appetite. The kitchen was rather lavish (like the rest of the castle) but painfully bare (also like the rest of the castle), half of its contents not even edible. Cash shoved bags of literal dirt out of the way until he found a single, solitary twinkie left in the back corner of the tenth cupboard he'd searched through. It wasn't even a full mouthful, but Cash ate it anyway. He was too hungry not to eat it.

His mouth hurt. His chest hurt. His spine hurt. Outside of the safety of his hoodie pockets, his hands shook enough to rattle the bones together. He tried holding one with the other, but only managed to bruise his wrist for real. Desperate to sate his cravings, Cash ripped open one of the bags of dirt and tried to eat it.

It tasted like dirt, and regret.

The only real saving grace to the whole situation was that, somehow, there was running water. From what he'd managed to coax out of Fell, that was somewhat new. Cash stuck his face in the sink and rinsed his mouth out right under the tap, chugging the water in hopes that that would fill the emptiness gnawing at him.

Why it was gnawing at him at all he had no idea: Cash knew he's just eaten a full, decent meal of burgers and fries (Fell paid rather well for help dusting anything more than six feet above the ground).

It was in the midst of this that Cash heard the kitchen door open. He froze, feeling the heavy, unmistakable aura of anguish that followed the castle's lord like a cloying mist.

" **Horror, you are now the kitchen boy,** " Nightmare said clearly. " **You shall uphold the laws of this kitchen, guard its contents, and bear the responsibility of keeping it stocked.** "

A voice that both was and was not familiar to Cash answered with, "isn't this a bit on the nose?"

There was a wheeze, the sound of breath punched from the body by pain. " **Think you to question your master, lich?** "

The tension lingered, like a sound Cash couldn't hear over the running water. Then it snapped, and the new person coughed. "w-what laws?"

" **I will simply let you know if you break them,** " Nightmare purred, " **until it amuses me to write them down.** "

A thump, a gasp, and Cash almost thought he might, possibly, escape notice.

He didn't think so very long.

Tendrils coiled over Cash's hunched body, yanking him away from the sink. " **And since Cash has so kindly volunteered, let me show you what awaits those that abandon their posts.** "

Cash struggled on reflex, trying to escape the ever tighter hold of Nightmare's tentacles. He even attempted to attack the little shit, but like usual, all his energy was drained away inexplicably, as if the noxious fumes rising from the slime banished it (not that Cash had much, given his current state). The heavy scent of madness and decay made the whole thing worse, turning his hunger to a threatening nausea and warning Cash that Nightmare was not in a mindset to be reasonable.

If only he were, if only.

Cash was forced to his knees, bent at an odd angle with his arms pulled back straight behind him. When he looked up, it was to see yet another monster that bore too much of a resemblance to Sans (if scarred and broken differently, then no less severely for it). The man was drenched in lines of black slime, residue from his time in Nightmare's clutches. His one crimson eyelight was wide and trembling, focused on Cash with an odd, fragile intensity that threatened to shatter.

Cash focused on breathing, on fighting down the aches in his body.

Nightmare started to laugh, deep and hollow and crackling with hysteria. " **Let's see how you like it, shall we? How-** " And it was at this point that Cash felt the first telling pricks of pressure on his shoulders, his elbow joints, as the tendrils holding his ribcage forward struggled against the ones pulling his arms back.

" **-do you-** " Cash strained against the growing pressure, something inside him resisting true comprehension of what exactly was happening to him, even though he knew- he knew-

" **like it?!** "

There was a pop, a sudden release of pressure. Then the pain flooded in, up what was left of Cash's arms, spearing into him.

Cash blacked out.

When Cash again came to, slumped against the detestable wooden door of the dungeon, he merely lay there, marveling that he had the capacity to breathe. It was after realizing his spine was stiff and aching that he tried to shift, bracing himself with one hand-

With-

The implications and his last waking memories clashed. Cash pat himself down quickly. He still ached like every bone in his body was protesting his continued existence, but both of his arms were still intact. Cash sighed, wiping fear and pain sweat off his skull as he gulped air he didn't need for the sheer comfort of it.

Had it been a dream? A hallucination? Was he going crazy?

Cash decided he'd rather not have to find out which was worse, not just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I threw a lot of hints about things and stuff in here, knowing* nobody is going to read it enough to figure it out
> 
> * i say, not knowing anything ever XD


	7. The Fifth Nightmare: Something New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How a KILL_Sans became part of Nightmare's crew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there are more little details here

Sans had said 'no'. He knows he had. The human confirmed it. Hell, he'd said 'no' over 176 times. He knows that it was 'no', because Sans had not stopped saying 'no' since this timeline started, and that haunting number echoes in his soul, burned there so deeply not even time itself could undo the entropy.

His arm swings in an elegant, disgustingly comfortable arc. The first few meet no resistance, but eventually Sans feels his knife connect with a solid body that gives too quickly, crunching against the blade like sand. Sans looks down to see a pile of dust, only a few scraps of clothes left to identify yet another friend cut down.

Sans doesn't let himself think of their name. Sans is tired. He is tired and he wants to stop, he _wants_ to _stop_ , but he feels the hot, wet slid of liquid malice leaking down his face like tears, and he feels the shift of the ground under his feet as his body begins walking again. Sans feels the smile on his face, the wind billowing his dusty jacket, the shift of his sweater against his ribs.

Sans's sweater used to be white. His soul used to be white, too. He knows neither of them is white anymore.

Sans can't stand how exposed he is, his soul forced out of his body to prevent the determination inside it from melting him alive. He knows that the first few seconds of the sensation had been humiliation of the highest order, walking around with everything he has and everything he is and everything he will ever be on shameless display, but the scandal of it was quickly overshadowed by the horror of his forced actions. Now the only reason Sans cares that his soul is out is because of how much _more_ it makes the world, how much louder, brighter. It makes the screams of his victims physically painful, the cold biting, the heat unbearable. Sans suspects that if there was enough of it in the underground, the light would probably be agony too.

Little mercies. It was the only mercy left, by Sans' count: That, and the blissful little blackouts where his soul shuts down altogether, and he presumably shambles along, piloted by sheer determination and whatever cruel master has decided they want to see him kill.

Sans hears his own laughter, so much louder than the desperate little 'no's he kept thinking in what was left of his mind.

And then that laughter is cut short.

It takes a moment for Sans to realize he is suffocating. He's so used to feeling like shit that there is no initial shock to catch his weak attention. When he does finally catch on to the idea, it takes even longer to blink the world into focus he can understand.

The first thing Sans sees is a single, piercing green eyelight, so bright it hurts to look at, so deep and knowing it hurts to _be_ looked at. Sans feels the demon living in his metaphorical skin squirm.

When that eye turns its attention to one side, Sans follows the trajectory as best he can. The second thing he sees is that Chara is in the same situation he is in, choked by tendrils of what Sans thinks is the same black malice he knows has stained himself.

Chara struggles, harder, scrambling with their bare hands to pry the unforgiving tentacle from their throat. Sans can't see where their knife went. He doesn't know where his went either.

It is when Sans realizes that he can't summon a weapon that he starts to consider panic.

" **Do you think you can walk around with that face to trick me?!** " The beast snarls, shaking the human. Sans realizes that the face he had seen had been one of neutrality. The face the beast gives to Chara is one of poisonous rage, the single eyelight a trembling, dangerous, predatory slit. " **Do you take me for a fool?! I see the lies in you soul, in your eyes. You cannot hide from me. I am the One Who Finds, I am the One Who Takes, and today-** "

There is a sick, sharp snap. Chara immediately goes limp, their face frozen, unmoving. There is a sudden crimson glow that grows brighter, until finally, their soul comes gently from their chest.

More tendrils coil tightly around the red heart, hiding its light. It is pulled under the beast's soaking cloak, disappearing as surely as if it had been dragged into the void.

Sans hopes they never come back.

The beast turns back to Sans. " **As for you...** "

Sans hopes, for but a single moment, that maybe this will be the end, maybe this will be how his pleas for mercy are answered.

" **You will do,** " the beast says, softer, the green of that slitted eyelight shifting to an equally piercing icy blue as it expands to a fathomless oval. " **With a little work, you will do quite nicely, I think...** "

Sans doesn't like the weight of those words where they settle on him. He likes the feeling of tendrils coiling around his soul even less. The slime burns like nothing else has ever burned, ripping a scream out of him he didn't know was still left to be screamed.

Something feels off inside Sans, as if someone had reached inside him to rummage around. It hurts, cathartically, and strangely enough he smells something that almost reminds him of sea tea and medicine. 

The sensation fades, as if it had never been.

" **I see you. I see the purpose that has been thrust upon you. I see the dust on your hands and the hatred unconfined.** " The words ring with honesty. They make Sans' soul ache like a bruise that had been punched a second time. " **I will call you Killer, as you will call me Nightmare.** "

Sans wants to tell him no. He hadn't really stopped saying no, after all, but there's no voice behind his words. Sans- _Killer-_ hangs limp in the beast's- _Nightmare's-_ grip, uncertain if the darkness is his new puppeteer's doing, or just another blackout giving him a tiny, pointless mercy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> killer's sweater is a nice little detail too dont you think?
> 
> does it hurt yet :3
> 
> Edit: i made these notes at the start of writing for this chapter and, like the inkbrain i am, forgot about them
> 
> but here, have this:
>
>> I found Killer!Sans through the fandom instead of the creator ([Rahafwabas](https://rahafwabas.tumblr.com/post/137613280985/something-new-i-know-english-is-sooo-bad-but-i) on tumblr), so I had to do a little research on him. I found a little... and this is... what I think it feels like.
>> 
>> Gotta say, shoutout to all the non-english speaking fandom. Yall are awesome. Words be hard.


	8. The Sixth Nightmare: The First Rule

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How an Underfell Papyrus dies in Nightmare's Castle, and Fell has to clean it up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just some worldbuilding (and pain)

Dust sleepwalks. That's the first thing you need to learn when you come to Nightmare's Castle. Dust sleepwalks, and he will murder you in his sleep.

That was why, if anyone bothered to ask Fell what the first rule of Nightmare's Castle was (and if you were smart, you would), he would say, every time, that it was, 'lock your door at night.'

The infinite liminal space where the castle stood knew no sense of time, but in the darkness of the castle, one could feel a subtle ebb and flow of energy, breathing in the walls like a great beast. Sometimes that 'breathing' slowed, and the unnerving sense of being watched faded. It was the only time anyone could feel enough of the illusion of safety to sleep, so it was 'night'.

However, Dust sleepwalked. Every night, like clockwork (so regular that Fell was able to set his cheap wristwatch to it before it broke), he'd come lumbering out of his assigned room and stalk the castle, a natural, involuntary patrol. If you were smart, and wanted to live, you made damn well sure you were in your own room when that happened, and your door was locked tight.

Fell had been assigned a small hallway closet as his room. It was just big enough for a blow-up mattress that was more ducktape than not, his cleaning supplies, his 'uniform', and a cardboard box of what meager personal possessions he had left. The door was sturdy, made of the same inscrutable black material as the rest of the castle, which meant it wouldn't give in so easily. Fell always made sure, no matter how embarrassing or tedious his daily assignment, he finished before the Castle (and by extension, Dust) went to sleep.

Fell still had nightmares about hiding from the freak in the library, his body tucked up small and tense atop the bookshelf he'd been cleaning. It was the last time he ever let himself get caught like that.

Dust sleepwalked. And that was why, as the castle maid, Fell had had to scrub the main hall's rug twice the day after an Underfell Papyrus was brought to the castle.

* * *

Fell sat back on his knees, grateful that, if nothing else, the carpet was soft and insulating from the cold floor. His uniform, a relatively new addition to his job description, didn't quite cover his legs well, which made scrubbing the floors brutal on his patella. Fell hated cleaning to begin with, but having to clean in a dress was just cruel.

Not that Fell was going to be complaining or anything. Complaining to Nightmare was a good way to get your limbs ripped off. So fucking what if he put them back later, Fell wasn't in any mood to risk having his leg yanked off like a flower petal again.

Once was enough, thanks. Cold, sore legs were infinitely better than no legs at all.

After rubbing the sore joints of his shoulders, ignoring the ticklish brush of the lace hem and collar, Fell went back to scrubbing the dust out of the carpet. He had to painstakingly scrub up the particles with a hard bristle brush, then sweep them gently into a pan. If the dust sat too long or got wet, it would melt and stain the natural fibre of the carpet. If _that_ happened on _Fell's_ watch, he had no doubt in his mind he'd be paying in blood.

Fell was a sweaty guy on the best of days. Anxiety only ever exacerbated it. Fell was a fucking fountain as he worked, which only slowed him down more.

His body ached. His joints ached. He was hungry, and tired, and he wanted to sleep without seeing faces in his dreams.

Fell wanted a lot of things.

A few more careful sweeps, and Fell was confident that he was done (and he _had_ to be confident, he was staking his life on it). Fighting down the shakes, Fell turned to the shredded, burned remains of the poor idiot's clothes. Shoving back memories that wouldn't help, Fell picked through the scraps for anything worth salvaging. The armor was good, solid leather that he could repurpose, maybe into a blanket or a pillow. The boots were too big for him and were heels besides, but he might be able to trade them down the line. The gloves might work for cleaning. The scarf and body suit were in rags, but maybe they could be used as scrap for repairs later...

It was while shaking and folding everything for transport that an item hidden in an inside pocket fell out onto the floor. The item landed with a muffled, dull clink, drawing Fell's attention immediately.

Fell forgot to breathe.

On the floor was a simple leather collar, the red dulled from wear and age and time. The little brass studs glinted weakly in the dim light, but enough to show where it had dulled with rust and where it hadn't. The D-ring was worn from heavy use.

Fell picked it up, ignoring the burn in his sockets and the lump hanging heavy against his throat where something else should have been. He yanked the scarf out of the pile, laying it out flat, and then put the collar on top of it. Fell paused to glance around the hall, making sure no one was watching, then poured the dust into the scarf, right over the collar, slow and careful so none could spill back onto the carpet.

Then he tied the scarf shut, bundled it up securely, and tossed the whole package out the window into the antivoid.

Sometimes things left out there long enough would disappear. Fell got rid of his candy wrappers that way. Maybe whatever took those would find a better place to mark the grave of a fool.

Lock your doors at night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did this hurt? it was supposed to hurt.


	9. The Seventh Nightmare: The Second Rule

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens to a Disbelief Papyrus in Nightmare's castle, from Dust's point of view.
> 
> Also some of Killer's thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit longer than the others

Dust is standing there when Nightmare arrives back from his outing, dragging another unsuspecting victim with him. This time, Dust can't look at the person directly, the long limbs and strong jaw and sharp cheekbones too much all at once.

Dust is numb, but he still feels the pressure pushing against the invisible wound, and he flinches.

He hears his brother's voice echo distantly in his head, like a shout from another room, like a whisper against his skull from just over his shoulder. _'DO NOT BE SUCH A BABYBONES. HE LOOKS ABSOLUTELY NOTHING LIKE ME! I AM CLEARLY MUCH MORE HANDSOME! BESIDES, I WOULD NEVER BE CAUGHT DEAD IN A FRUMPY JACKET LIKE THAT!'_ The laughter is one part jovial, one part haunting. _'IT IS FUNNY BECAUSE I AM PROVING IT RIGHT NOW!'_

Dust knows better than to turn and look. He knows the red that floats just out of sight is an illusion. He knows the slight brush of a familiar hand against his shoulder, like the instant between the moments it is and is not resting its full weight there, isn't real.

He knows he's going crazy, if not already gone. He still can't chance it. "heh, good one." Just because Dust has to be alone, doesn't mean his brother has to be.

Nightmare drops the thing that is not his brother on the carpet, tendrils flicking to spray the area in his black ooze. It shimmers in blues today, matching the cold of his eyelight as it lands on Dust. " **You. Pick a room and throw him in it.** "

"sure thing, boss," Dust answers. When Nightmare skitters off on his tendrils, leaving a slime trail in his wake like a racing snail, Dust knows it is a good day.

Or, as good a day as could ever be had.

The person that is not Dust's brother picks himself off the floor. He quickly brushes off the globs of ooze from his dusty blue jacket. The jacket is too small for him, bunched up at the elbows and dangling too high above his hips. There is a diagonal slice through it, the frayed ends matching in a familiar arc that none of his other clothes show signs of.

The tall skeleton sighs in relief when he finds minimal staining from the slime on his memorial coat. "AH! SORRY ABOUT THE WAIT. I AM... NOT IN THE BEST SHAPE AT THE MOMENT."

Dust doesn't have anything to say to that.

The silence drags. Neither one of them can seem to look at the other directly.

"THIS IS... TERRIBLY AWKWARD. MAYBE AN INTRODUCTION IS IN ORDER. I AM THE GREAT P-."

Dust finally looks the person over. They freeze, and he can see that they see the change in him, the places Dust is cracked and broken and twisted and wrong. He sees the disappointment.

 _'OF COURSE YOU DO. WHO WOULD NOT BE DISAPPOINTED IN YOU,'_ asked the voice that follows him in the dark. The echo of intent on his shoulder juxtaposes a polarity, as if the wind wants to contradict the words carried on it. The pressure of something prodding against Dust's broken soul is a little stronger, but he is still numb. He does not have to feel anything anymore.

"...WELL. I WAS TOLD I WAS TO BE CALLED LOST NOW. SO THAT WILL WORK. WHAT CAN I CALL YOU?" The one who isn't Dust's brother, Lost, asks.

"dust."

"IT IS VERY..." Lost paused. "...NICE. TO MEET YOU. YES. NICE." There is a wetness to his words, a warble. Dust can't feel anything.

Dust knows better than to disobey Nightmare. He turns, headed for the side of the castle with empty rooms.

"HEY! WHERE ARE YOU GOING?" Lost follows. There is something about the sound of his footsteps that squeezes some of the numbness out of Dust, leaving his soul uncomfortably tight, tingling with pins and needles. Dust ignores it until he finds a room without a claim, and promptly shoves Lost inside.

Dust leaves at a brisk pace. He barely hears Lost's, "THANK YOU, DUST!" over the whispers telling him he should have shoved harder.

* * *

When Dust sees Lost next, the guy is marching down the hall with a mop and bucket, a smile on his face and a spring in his step and returns that soul crushing pressure to Dust as if it had never left. "GOOD MORNING, DUST!"

Dust doesn't have the words to respond. His brother's voice takes up too much space. _'GOOD MORNING TO YOU TOO. ISN'T HE CHIPPER AFTER LOSING EVERYONE HE KNOWS AND LOVES? WERE YOU THAT HAPPY, SANS?'_

Dust doesn't feel like answering him, either, so he continues to say nothing.

Lost slows to a stop, leveling Dust with his own dulled eyelights, inscrutable and thoughtful. It was the look of a person who saw what he did not want to see.

_'BECAUSE NOBODY WANTS TO SEE WHAT YOU'VE BECOME.'_

"I WAS JUST ABOUT TO HELP FELL MOP THE FLOORS! DID YOU KNOW HE CLEANS THE WHOLE CASTLE BY HIMSELF? SO INDUSTRIOUS! AND I AM SURE WITH MY GREAT ASSISTANCE WE CAN GET DONE EVEN FASTER! WHY DON'T YOU JOIN US?"

Dust feels nothing but pressure, pressure, pressure, and an itch in his hands, to squeeze something else so he would not be alone in the pressure.

"I KNEW YOU WOULD! YOU CAN HOLD THE BUCKET!"

Lost places the bucket handle in Dust's hands. He squeezes it, feeling the plastic grip creak between his fingers.

"EXCELLENT! ONWARD!"

Dust finds himself lumbering behind Lost. The whispers in his skull fade to muted static. The pressure eases.

Dust still feels nothing, but he can almost imagine he feels nothing less.

* * *

The next time Dust sees Lost, it is in the library.

"OH! HELLO DUST! LOOK! THERE ARE BOOKS!"

Dust doesn't have anything to say to that. It is a library, after all.

Lost is presumably unperturbed. "THERE ARE HUNDREDS AND HUNDREDS OF BOOKS IN HERE! WELL. MOST OF THEM ARE JOURNALS, NOT BOOK BOOKS. BUT THEY ARE WRITTEN IN FUNNY WORDS I DO NOT RECOGNIZE AND SOME OF THEM HAVE VERY IMPRESSIVE ILLUSTRATIONS THAT ARE NICE TO LOOK AT ANYWAY!"

Dust just stares at the guy. He feels nothing.

But when he listens, he feels that nothing a little less.

Dust thinks he sees a red mitten clap Lost on the shoulder. He thinks he sees a swath of red in the air, framing a too-familiar smile. He pretends he doesn't, since he knows it isn't real.

"BUT IF YOU LOOK HERE THERE ARE PUZZLE BOOKS TOO! SEE?"

Dust lets Lost show him. The pressure eases.

* * *

The last time Dust sees Lost, he's on the floor.

Killer is laughing.

Lost smiles. Then that smile crumbles as his bones turn to dust.

Dust feels nothing. He feels nothing more, as he slugs Killer hard enough his skull slams into the wall. He crumbles into a heap like a broken doll, but his dust doesn't join the rest.

Duat doesn't want that, for some reason.

 _'HE TOOK SOMETHING FROM YOU,'_ his brother whispers. _'HE DOES NOT DESERVE IT SO QUICK. SO EASY.'_

Dust smiles. "you're right. he deserves something... else..."

Dust goes to do the cruelest thing he can think of. He goes to tell Nightmare.

* * *

Killer's skull is ringing, accompanied by a steady, rhythmic thumping that he can feel up and down his spine. His neck aches terribly. His jaw aches worse. It takes him a moment to realize that he isn't in the antechamber anymore, tucked up safe in the shelf with the rest of the gargoyles. He must have blacked out again.

Killer has whiplash and a few broken ribs. He thinks his mandible is injured, but the very pain that must have shocked him back to lucidity keeps him from knowing if it's bruised or broken. His face is wet, warm damp liquid malice leaking from his sockets to paint over his perpetual grin. He can feel the pressure of the tentacles binding his arms a little too tightly to his chest.

" **So very nice of you to join us, Killer,** " Nightmare half lilts, half snarls in that way he has on his better, more lucid days. The tone has a bit of something musical to it, reminding Killer of something else, _someone else_ , vaguely.

Killer's skull is still ringing too harshly to make any connections, but he files the thought away for later. Instead, he focuses on the eyelight that for once is a steady, if intimidating, lavender, the color of perseverance. Even though Killer knows this is the better of all possible outcomes, the hue still makes something inside him shudder. He can almost hear the color speaking to him, saying _I will outlast you,_ old and ageless and uncaring of time.

Killer might have a concussion, if he's hearing colors now.

" **And now that I have your attention,** " The boss continues, the hue of that eyelight shifting to the steely, icy blue that warns Killer he is on dangerously thin ice, " **perhaps you can enlighten me as to what that is?** "

One of the many tendrils coming from under Nightmare's cloak curls to point a little to Killer's side. Killer can't turn his head (his neck is in too much pain, and trying just makes his whole body lock up), but his peripheral (as fuzzy and unfocused as it may have been) lets him see just enough to take a guess.

"...dust?"

" **Of course, dust. And what about what is _in_ the dust? Is that a knife? Perhaps, _your_ knife?**"

Killer can't see the knife. He can barely see the dust, but he thinks he can smell it. It is hard to tell since he has gone largely nose-blind to it (despite not having an actual nose). His skull still rings, and the scent of decay and rubber and something spicy that wafts from Nightmare's slime at all times does very little to help him focus.

" **Tis indeed your knife, in this dust. So tell me, Killer, did you perchance forget my laws?** "

Killer knows the rules. What he does not know is if he still knows them during his blackouts. Of course, he doubts that would be an excuse to Nightmare.

" **Answer, minion.** "

"no, boss."

Killer feels himself being slammed back down to the floor before he registers ever being picked up. " **Then enlighten me as to why you thought it would be acceptable to break them?! Who said you could make such a foul mess in my castle?!** "

Killer feels something in him snap. The world goes sideways, colors and shapes melting as his vision fuzzed first to white before going black.

When Killer next wakes up, he's been left in the nest he'd managed to make in his assigned room, a frumpy pile of blankets and pillows that he'd cobbled together between his blackouts and his orders. His neck aches like an old bruise. His face aches like a new one. Touching it, Killer can feel a crack where a tooth had been knocked out. The same tooth is shoved back in crooked.

It hurts to fix, but Killer manages.

When he tries to sit up, his ribs protest, and he slumps back down against his will.

He would have to ask someone what happened later. Maybe Lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second rule depends on who you ask, I think.
> 
> Theres a message I think Lost was trying to get across. Maybe it got lost somewhere. I dunno.
> 
> Well, I know. But do you?


	10. The Eighth Nightmare: The Third Rule

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Horror's perspective regarding what happens to the latest arrival to Nightmare's Castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this got.... way longer than i intended it to. horror sure is talkative XD
> 
> 3.7k words talkative jfc

Horror scribbles in the old journal he had been given, fumbling with the delicate quill pen, careful not to disturb the inkwell where it sits ominously on the island counter. Loose pages he had ripped out, covered in scratch marks and scribbled mistakes, lay scattered messily on the floor where he let them fall, but Horror cannot bring himself to care. Instead, he stares at the pathetic excuse for a recipe he's written down, going over the ingredients and quantities and instructions one more time. This one is for a simple quiche, although he can't quite recall where he ever learned it.

Horror knows his memory is full of holes, just like the rest of him.

Horror stares at the pathetic excuse of a cookbook, reaching up with his empty right hand to tug on his equally empty eye socket. He flips back a few pages, looking over everything else he's written down: Baked Potatoes; Peanutbutter and Jelly Sandwich; Hotdogs; Hotcats; Vegetable Soup; Grilled Fish (a bit of a fantasy, the words eliciting a malicious razor of a smile); Fries; Hamburger; Spinach Egg Pie.

Horror refuses to write about spaghetti. Whenever he tries, his hands shake and his head hurts. He refuses to write about ramen too, although he knows that that is for different reasons.

Horror does not know how long he sits there, staring at the pages. His spine creaks inside him, his bones brittle and hollow from half a decade of starvation. His ribs still ache from where his new boss had squeezed a little too hard, although he knows that that was days ago.

Or perhaps it was weeks ago.

Or perhaps it was years ago.

Horror does not know if it matters, when he hurts and hungers just the same.

Setting the quill pen aside, Horror makes himself close the book. He hopes that he hasn't forgotten anything important.

When the kitchen door creaks open, and the chill of Dust's presence fills the air, Horror knows he has.

Dust is quiet, although Horror still doesn't know if that is a good thing or a bad thing. Horror has heard that Dust used to be the same as him, a Sans of ordinary make, but Horror can hardly see it in him now. Horror has to tilt his head up to look at Dust, and Horror knows that over the years, his bones have gotten longer, stretched higher, as if his soul had been reaching for the freedom above so denied him with its last faltering strength. Or perhaps all the extra physical matter that Horror had tried eating to make the pain stop had accumulated over time. Horror isn't sure. He wonders if the old him would have been fascinated by the phenomenon. He wonders if the old him would have been clever enough to figure out the truth.

Still, Horror has to look up to look Dust in the metaphorical eyes. Dust does not smile, or rather, one does not want to see Dust smile. It usually means that he has heard something funny, and when Dust hears something funny, there is usually no good, comforting source. He is not smiling now, and a bit of the tension in Horror's shoulders lessens.

"well, just come in to stare, or ya looking for something?" Horror asks.

Dust takes two steps closer, slow, unhurried, as he rummaged in his pockets. He pulls out a small, inconspicuous piece of parchment, flicking it casually onto the island counter.

Horror looks down at it, then picks it up to inspect further. The parchment is gilded with ornate black script and borders, front and back. There is a stylized image of an apple in the center, and text that says '1 meal' in elegant archaic script. Horror licks the corner, tasting the gilding. No one can falsify the unpalatable, fermented, rubbery, spicy buzz that shocks his system, reassuring Horror that the ticket is legitimate.

Horror's hip still aches from the one time he didn't check. His memory is not kind enough to erase the phantom agony of being ripped apart at the seams.

Satisfied, Horror tucks the rations ticket into the drawer set aside for them and gets to work. He knows Dust well enough to know what he wants: a burger and fries, with extra ketchup. The smell as Horror cooks makes him salivate, makes the grinding of his lumbar vertebrae and the twisting of his empty soul that much more difficult to ignore, but he works through it.

Horror's shoulder still aches from when he had eaten without a ration ticket of his own. He knows better than to try again, knows the consequences.

Horror is almost doubled over in pain by the time the stupid meat is cooked. He tries to be quick about putting it between the buns. The fries take a bit longer, since he has to cook them in a pan in a brick oven. His legs tremble under him. His insides scream in protest. Horror notices he drops a single fry to the floor as he spills them onto the plate next to the hamburger.

Dust leaves, Horror thinks, but it is hard for him to be certain. Most of his focus is on that singular fry laying helpless on the floor, right atop one of those discarded pages. Grease spittle frames it in an artful spray over the parchment on which it lays.

Horror notices vaguely that colors are losing vibrancy.

Horror picks up the fry in his left hand, his right one back in his socket. He tugs, harder, a desperate attempt to shock himself back to lucidity. When he tastes grease and starch and salt, so strong and sudden and flavorful it makes him retch, Horror knows he failed.

The single fry dissolves in his system, but the shock lingers like a punch in the gut. Horror bruises his patella when his legs give out, leaving him in a crumpled heap on the floor. The floor feels cool and almost soothing against his forehead, sending the idle thought through him that he might be feverish. He feels it, like that little bit of grease jumpstarted his whole system into a flash fire. He wants to put it out, he wants water, and he knows it's just a few feet away in the sink, but Horror can't move. He can barely think anything beyond that he's _still hungry._

" **You dare turn against me a second time..?** " says the last voice Horror wants to hear. He feels the slick coils slither over his prone body, curling and tightening over his aching bones. The one around his neck constricts, and Horror's world goes horribly, blessedly, empty.

When Horror comes back to himself again, his neck aches like his shoulder and hip joints, like his ribs, and he is grateful his memory is full of holes.

Just like the rest of him.

* * *

Even though Horror rarely got to go on excursions outside the castle (shortcutting out of the plane of existence where his stolen eye was kept turned out to be really fucking painful, and even if it wasn't, it was a different kind of troublesome getting back in again), he is more or less the first to know when someone new comes in. No matter who it is, locating the kitchen is _everyone's_ first priority.

Logically, therefore, Horror should not have been nearly as surprised by a new face in his kitchen as he turns out to be in practice. He only waits long enough to be sure he doesn't recognize them at all before flinging his kitchen knife (which was also a machete) at them.

The other person ducks, narrowly avoiding the weapon turned projectile. His wide brim straw hat is not so lucky, getting pinned to the wall and pierced clean through where the knife caught it.

"...well that ain't too neighborly..." The other mutters, looking between Horror and his hat.

Horror stares. The other skeleton is clearly also a Sans (because the multiverse is a thing, even if thinking about it makes Horror's head hurt nowadays), dressed in dirty, worn slacks and a thick plaid button up. Blue plaid is odd enough, but there is a twitch to his teeth, like he is used to having something between them that just isn't there. The false chewing motion reminds Horror of his own hunger, and he cannot help but wonder how long it is before Eating Day is due to arrive.

It feels like so long since the last Eating Day, since the last time Nightmare permitted Horror to clean out the pantry. The food is always a little stale by then, but never moldy. That is why Eating Day exists, to stave off mold.

Horror is just grateful he gets anything.

"hey, ya alright there..?" The other Sans' voice pierces through the melancholy. When Horror blinks, he sees the familiar yet unfamiliar face much closer, the wounded hat rescued from the wall and the large machete in his hand. Horror can see his bones are thick, well fed and exercised. Horror knows his knife is heavy, because that is why he still uses it (it is too heavy for Killer, who is a lithe build meant for speed, and Dust does not need a weapon if he wants Horror dead), so it is no small observation when he sees the ease with which this new face carries it one-handed.

"you're a bit out of it, huh..." He continues, setting the machete down on the counter. It is only then that Horror remembers the rest of the kitchen exists.

"no ticket, no food," Horror parrots, remembering his job. "come back when ya got a ticket. or next time i won't miss."

The other guy stares at Horror, large white pips taking him in. "well, i ain't got no ticket, but i ain't got nowhere else to go neither. it ok if i hang out here?"

Horror takes hold of his machete (that is also his kitchen knife), slinging it over his shoulder. The weight of it against his clavicle distracts him from the aches in his ribs, hips, and neck, distracts him from the hunger. "don't touch the food. don't touch my stuff." If he wants to loiter, then Horror can make rules too.

Horror turns his back to the new person, slinging the knife into the sink to clean and sharpen it. Without anything else to do, it's a mindless enough task that Horror can escape to.

"your stuff?" There is a pause, and the sound of fabric shifting makes Horror think the other is looking around. "what stuff?"

The question is a fair one. Horror points up without looking.

His job is to take care of the kitchen. The boss seemed to think that meant he was supposed to live in it too, but the kitchen doesn't have much living space. The kitchen also does not have a lock, which means a certain terror can wander in at any time during his nightly romps. Horror may not be everything he once was, but he's still got a bit of cleverness. He also still has one eye, discolored as it is. So, when Horror saw the large rafter beams and wall shelves carved out in decorative arches, he got an idea.

Horror does not have much nowadays, but he's managed to threaten and bargain here and there for help making his life a little less awful. There's a pillow, a blanket, and a soft mat all laid out in the biggest of the decorative shelves along the wall. His notebook, ink, and quill pen, issued by Nightmare (why the boss insisted on such archaic tools, especially when phone apps exist, Horror would never know) are tucked up in the neighboring shelf. At night, Horror can spread the mat out along the broadest of the rafter beams to sleep. The wooden beam does not smell as much as the stone, which ever reminds him of apples and citrus and peppers, things he wants but can never have. Sleeping on the wooden beam means his skull will ache less come morning, and his soul will not twist quite so violently with want.

"do ya... sleep in here..?" the stranger asks, a soft quality in their voice that Horror refuses to identify. Trying to brushes far too hard against something tender in his analog for a mind, making his skull ring and sockets burn.

"don't worry," Horror assures as he turns back to face his guest, pushing those thoughts aside to deal with never. "i'm a real light sleeper. if anyone comes in i'll wake right up to deal with it."

"well, thats..." The other adjusts the brim of his hat, before pushing it up and away from his smiling face. "thats mighty kind of ya! name's sans, but the little guy called me farmer. how about you?"

"horror."

"nice to meet ya."

Horror resumes his focus on the knife-that-is-a-machete in the sink. He is careful, making sure Farmer never gets too close, but the guy seems content to sit quietly with his hat and his thoughts.

When Farmer leaves, Horror breathes a sigh of relief, and gets ready for bed. It would be night soon, if the castle's scent and breathing were any indication.

* * *

It is when Farmer returns the next day that Horror questions his sanity.

"morning, horror!" Farmer's voice is cheerful. When he smiles, a faint green flush takes over his zygoma. "heard you're the fella to ask for a knife. ya got one to spare? a small one would do."

Horror does have knives. He has knives that came with the kitchen and knives he had taken from Killer as payment for trespassing. It is the latter that Horror reaches for, before stopping himself. "what for?"

"well..." Farmer sheepishly pulls out a bar of soap from his pockets. "was hoping to do a bit of whittling. lost my old knife back home when-" A shadow passes over his eyelights. It is a shadow that Horror knows well, that has nothing to do with the dim light or the miasmic decay that has started to wane in the castle. "well, no going back to look, i reckon."

"what will i get in return?" Horror asks, leaning against the drawers he knows is full of knives.

"in return..?" Farmer scratches his cheek. "well... how about collateral? i'll bring the knife back, and till i do, you can keep-" He takes off his hat. "-this? is that fair?"

Horror doesn't know what he is going to do with a hat, living in a castle with neither rain nor shine, but a fair deal is a fair deal. He pulls out one of the knives, flipping it a few times before catching the blade and offering it hilt first.

Farmer takes it, replacing it with his hat. It is the hesitation in that moment that tells Horror this is a good deal. Horror inspects the item, poking at the slit his own blade had made just the other day.

"this old thing won't do ya no good anymore," Horror thinks aloud.

Farmer chuckles. "why do ya say that?" Horror hears the soft give of the soap under his blade before he sees it, deft hands working with confidence in their art.

"it's broken."

"it'll still make me shade just fine," Farmer dismissed with a smile, looking more at the soap than Horror. "besides, it'll patch up easy with a little love. most things do."

Something about those words makes Horror's insides twist, makes his sockets burn, makes his skull ring. Before he knows it, he's tossed the hat to the counter and stabbed it a second time in as many days.

Farmer just looks at it, at him, his hands going still for only a moment. When he gets back to work, his voice is softer. "...maybe two patches."

Horror feels his insides twist, the ring of monochrome fading from his vision. He says nothing else to Farmer as he works.

The hat sits there on the counter, mocking him. Horror tugs on his empty socket, trying to relieve the cloying flood of words and feelings too garbled to understand. His skull aches.

Unsure of what he's doing, or why, Horror stumbles to the pantry. He stares inside, like he doesn't have his stock memorized down to the last grain of rice. He does not know how long he stares, only that after some amount of time he recognizes what it is he's looking for.

Horror pulls out the potato sack, a bag of thick, sturdy brown burlap. Under it is the discarded pile of another, emptier bag. Horror pulls that out with his other hand, replacing the potatoes and closing the pantry before his soul gets any funny ideas about having a snack.

When Horror turns around, Farmer is just setting down the knife. The soap bar is fully shaped into a small, somewhat lumpy figure, with long limbs and a wide brim hat. "thanks for the loan," he says, something damp in his vowels that drags them down.

Horror tosses the empty burlap sack at Farmer. "get rid of this while you're at it," he says, unsure why. He knows that he knows, but a part of him seems unwilling to accept it.

When Farmer smiles, that shimmer of green comes back. He says words, but Horror is distracted and doesn't hear them. Farmer leaves, taking his soap and his hat and the empty sack that Horror isn't ready to admit is an apology.

Horror feels less alone, although the room is the same empty as always.

* * *

When Horror sees Farmer next, his hat doesn't have any holes. His smile is brighter on his face, and something in Horror feels lighter for it. "morning, horror!" he says, like there is a day to begin and a night to end, like anything matters and his greeting is anything more than an empty nicety devoid of meaning.

Horror mumbles a tentative, "morning," wondering if he'll get used to having someone to speak to again.

"i got one of them ticket thingies," Farmer continues, waving the decorative paper like its value is equivalent to its weight. "that means i can finally see that food, yeah?"

Horror takes the ticket, licking the edge. It is real, the taste unmistakable. "...what ya want?"

"want?"

Horror pulls down the menu notebook. "pick whatever."

Farmer considers, scratching his chin. His teeth make that motion that isn't real chewing as his eyelights jump across the page. "...can i maybe make it myself? that okay?"

Horror doesn't know. He doesn't remember if there is any rule about it. He would rather not risk it. "no. i cook."

Farmer's disappointment is palpable. "fair enough. how about one a these egg pies? not quite an apple cobbler, but close enough."

Horror can hear how close Farmer really thinks it is. There aren't any apples in the pantry, so he would have been out of luck anyway, but Horror pulls the menu close and writes about it on a blank page. Pulling the ink and pen down is an obvious, time consuming labor, but Horror would rather remember than forget.

He's forgotten enough. He hasn't forgotten enough.

Horror checks the quiche recipe one last time before he puts it all away, careful and deliberate for his own sake. He can feel Farmer's eyes on him, a warmth in the cold of the castle he never leaves. He has to focus on the recipe, on pulling out all the ingredients and mixing them carefully, on coaxing a fire in the brick oven he hates but uses anyway (because the boss nearly tore his head off when he suggested a gas stove and Horror wasn't about to bring it up again). He has to focus, because if he doesn't focus he'll think about the smell, and then his skull will ring and his spine will creak and grind like so many stones in an empty lakebed.

The quiche gets done, and Horror is quick to put out the fire while he lets it cool. The kitchen is toasty for the first time in who knows how long (Horror sure as hell didn't, only that it was probably the last time he cooked), but Horror knows better than to leave it unattended. His neck aches at the thought of it, his hip joint throbs at the memory he wishes he could forget.

The fire goes out, and Horror closes the oven to keep the smoke smell out.

Behind him, Farmer hums, muffled and euphoric. Horror smells soft crust, eggs, and something earthy.

His mouth waters. His hand aches from where he is clutching the too-warm metal of the oven door. He cannot tell of the grinding crack he hears is his middle or his teeth.

When Horror turns, he sees Farmer pulling a fork from his mouth. "you sure do make a mighty fine pie, there, buddy!"

When Farmer smiles, all Horror can see is a bit of spinach stuck between his teeth. It's the only color he can see.

The world is made of smells: The smell of the quiche; the smell of the smoke that hasn't quite decided it was done lingering; the smell of decay, dripping black from his mouth like drool; the smell of fear.

There is a sweet smell.

There is food. Blessed food. Horror can taste it. It tastes like he added too much sugar, although he doesn't remember adding any sugar at all.

Horror doesn't remember eating, but when he looks down at his hands, he sees a few crumbs still clinging to his sleeve. He can taste the crust behind his teeth, the extra sugar.

When he can see, what he sees is Farmer's hat, sitting in the middle of a pile of dust.

Horror's jaw aches, pain throbbing along the hairline fracture left behind by someone he cannot think about. His hands shake, scattering the crumbs and dust that clung to them to the floor.

Horror hears himself laughing, but there isn't anything funny about what he's done. Laughter hurts, shaking his insides like a soda can until he finally throws up in the sink.

If a few tears fall, no one else is there to see.

A straw hat finds itself a home in the kitchen rafters, a quiet, humble reminder of something gone. There is a bit of soap there too, hidden from sight but not from smell beneath a patch of burlap.

Horror's memory is not kind enough to rob him of why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :3


	11. The Ninth Nightmare: The Fourth Rule

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cash meets a Fellswap Gold Sans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter resisted being written. It also brought to light one of my writing quirks that makes my betas wanna chew tin foil.
> 
> also check the tags. dead dove do not eat.

Cash climbed up the dungeon stairs, trying not to think about the darkness crowding his back like a physical weight. His dinky phone light (and thank every star in every sky that Undyne -- rest her crazy bitch soul, he didn't miss her at all, the tightness in his chest was a cough -- had figured out how to make magic-chargeable batteries, or he would have been screwed a long time ago) only lit up so much in front of him, and not at all behind. The depth of the darkness that his meager light couldn't pierce, the way the stairs seemed to go on forever in both directions until they didn't, ending suddenly with one door or another, had taken too long for Cash to get used to. He counted the stairs, one-hundred-and-thirty-seven, with a small landing every dozen or so that would turn at what he thought was a right angle, leading down (or, in this case, up) in a jagged spiral. There was plenty of room for two people to walk side by side, and his light occasionally mapped out contours in the walls where light fixtures should have gone but were never finished. Cash used those as handholds on days he felt like he was going to fall.

Cash was finally able to climb up the whole staircase and exit into the castle hall without feeling like his legs were going to break and splinter under him. That had taken a long time, too, days and days and days of having to climb down every night and up every morning. He would have written it off as too much trouble, preferring instead to sleep in the hall on the floor, if not for Dust's bouts of aggressive sleepwalking. As it was, co-opting one of the empty cells as a bedroom had been the better gamble, and Cash made it a rule to only bet when and how he was sure to win.

Legs only mildly numb and ankles only slightly twinging, Cash closed the dungeon door and leaned against it in a relieved, comfortable slouch. He turned his phone light off, sinking lower and lower until he sat down on the floor altogether, stretching his sore legs in front of him to give his feet some relief.

Drug free, in the best shape of his life; Cash was pretty sure Sans would be pissed that this only happened after he died. The bag of preserved dust sat heavy in his pocket. Cash imagined the scolding he would have gotten fondly, poignantly, picking at a scab on his metaphorical heart.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING ON THE FLOOR?"

At first, the voice mixed in Cash's head along with his somber daydream, blending the auditory sensations. It blended badly: like watercolors that clashed, the edges going a sour, dull brown; like a chord made of notes only a half step apart, too alike and yet too different to ever harmonize.

Cash opened his one good eye, uncertain when he'd even closed it. Standing between his splayed legs was a monster in a sharp leather uniform, but what first caught Cash's attention were the thigh-high, blood red, high-heeled boots planted shoulder width apart. He stared at them, following them up the rather short frame, taking in the new person's militant posture and unimpressed resting-bitch-face.

"whats it worth to ya?" Cash asked. "knowing, i mean?"

Cash thought he saw a smile crack, sad and tired as it was. "NOT ENOUGH TO ASK TWICE. WHERE IS THE GUARD CAPTAIN?"

"the what?"

"I DO NOT LIKE REPEATING MYSELF."

Cash pulled out a straw he'd been chewing on for three days, slipping it between his teeth. "i don't make a point of giving out free intel, but..." Money wasn't worth much nowadays, and folks who didn't know the rules wouldn't play the game. "...there's, like, five people in this whole building, not counting the boss:" Cash held up his hand, counting off each role, starting with his thumb, "the maid, the cook, the sentry, the shittier sentry, and the jailor- thats me."

The new guy stared at Cash. Cash wasn't sure if he should bet on his jaw falling off, or his teeth breaking from the stress of being ground so hard together. "ONLY SIX OTHER PEOPLE IN THE ENTIRE CASTLE..."

"yup."

New Guy was quiet, thoughtful. Cash heard the flex of leather. He would bet good money that there were gloves hidden behind the guy's back. Then, sharp and sudden, the new guy turned and marched off down the hall, stepping over Cash's leg in the process.

Cash let some of his tension ease, although he couldn't relax entirely with the walls looking at him. Still, so long as no one else was around, he could rest his legs and pretend he didn't have a migraine.

* * *

Cash heard the crisp click of New Guy's heels before he saw him. Cash was on his feet again, slouch aside, so his vantage point was dramatically different. He was taller than the New Guy, and those extra inches from those heels didn't close the gap between them.

New Guy's crimson scarf fluttered behind him as he marched down the hall, seeming at first glance to be more focused on the notebook in which he scribbled than the floor in front of him. Cash, feeling a tad mischievous, tried the old leg stretching trick.

Those sleek red boots stepped right over his flipflop, bringing the New Guy to a halt in front of him.

"YOU. CASH, CORRECT?"

"yeah."

"I AM DESIGNATED AS WINE. I HAVE TAKEN THE LIBERTY OF ASSIGNING MYSELF TO THE DUTIES BEFITTING MY SKILLS. THAT MEANS SEEING TO IT THAT THIS CASTLE RUNS EFFICIENTLY."

Cash felt a smirk play at his teeth. The posture, the clear, crisp enunciation, the prudence; he was not like Sans at all, not in the least, and yet, Cash found difficulty making eye contact. "duly noted."

"WHAT SUPPLIES DO YOU REQUIRE?"

"supplies?"

"DO NOT MAKE ME REPEAT MYSELF." Wine snapped his book shut. "THIS BUILDING AND ITS INHABITANTS HAVE FALLEN INTO A DEGREE OF NEGLIGENCE THAT WOULD COAX LESSER MEN INTO ORGAN FAILURE." His serene composure slowly cracked, letting the outraged emotion bleed out into the world through his eyelights, through his voice. "I HAVE COUNTED TWO LIGHT FIXTURES ON THIS ENTIRE FLOOR, NEITHER OF WHICH ARE USABLE. ALL OF THE UNOCCUPIED BEDROOMS ARE UNFURNISHED, THE DININGROOM LACKS CHAIRS, THE KITCHEN IS UNDERSTOCKED-" He cut himself off, grimacing before regaining composure. "I CAN ONLY IMAGINE WHAT SUPPLIES ARE NEEDED AND I HAVE BEEN INFORMED THAT THE NEXT SUPPLY RUN IS IN AN HOUR. WHAT. DO. YOU. REQUIRE?"

Cash played with the chewed up straw, twisting it between his fingers. "...hmm." What was he supposed to ask for? Money? Beer? Coke? A pillow? Maybe something expensive? Not that money or status had any value in the castle. It also seemed like a dumb idea to get back into self medication when he couldn't guarantee a steady supply; that was just asking to get hurt. It took Cash an interestingly long moment to finally come up with an answer. "hows about one of them lanterns? the electric kind? preferably with a magic battery. gets real dark down in the dungeon."

"THE DUNGEONS..?" Wine focused on the door behind Cash, crimson eyes piercing and thoughtful. There were bags under them, deep grooves worn away by time and stress. He looked like he was tired. Cash wondered if his skull pounded with the same migraine that Sans used to struggle with.

Cash wondered why he hadn't let himself forget the weight in his pocket.

"YOU GO DOWN THERE OFTEN?"

"i sleep down in the first level at night." It was safer than trying to sleep in the hall. Marginally.

Wine continued to stare, unblinking, his eyelights hazing over as they briefly lost focus. He shook his head, making his long scarf sway behind him. "DULY NOTED."

With that, he was gone. Cash just barely caught sight of his face as he turned the corner, just barely saw the flex of his jaw as he tasted a word silently on his breath, only to find it unappealing.

Cash wondered what it was for the rest of the day.

* * *

It was just as the castle was falling asleep, just as the buzz in the walls and sense of being watched was fading, that Wine returned. He had a pile of something black and purple in his hands, and on top of the pile was a cylindrical item.

"HERE." The pile was offered, without preamble. Cash bent down to take it, inspecting the free stuff. Cash always liked free stuff. To his surprise, what he found were soft (incredibly soft, unnaturally soft) fabrics, a neatly folded futon with a cushy pillow, weighed down by a sturdy, adjustable electric lantern.

"I HAVE ISSUED EVERYONE WITHOUT A CONFIRMED BEDPLACE EMERGENCY FUTONS. AND THIS IS YOUR LIGHT SOURCE. IT WILL DO WELL TO BANISH DARKNESS."

Cash smirked. "just in time. it's night. my shift's over." It took some juggling, but Cash managed to pull out his keys and unlock the door (something he had to do often, when the door decided to lock itself behind him whenever it pleased).

"DO YOU REQUIRE ANY ASSISTANCE?"

Cash propped the door open with his foot, looking down at Wine. The castle was silent, the world as dark as it could be in the endless expanse of white where it resided. There was a lump in Cash's throat he didn't want to acknowledge, clutching the soft material to his chest, uncaring how the lantern dug in sharply. "nah. i got it. thanks for the free stuff, shorty."

Cash closed the door in the guy's face before he had to look at it anymore. The way his eyes burned and his throat itched made him wish he still had something to take the edge off his sentimentality.

It was pitch dark on the first landing. Cash figured it was as good a time as any to try the lantern.

It went from suppressing darkness to comparative daylight.

The stone walls of the landing glistened in the brightness, throwing slightly colored refractions through the air, bouncing like sunlight through the cathedral windows of the judgement hall. Cash could see straight down to the next landing, not a shadow in sight.

After the long, surreally peaceful walk down to the first level, Cash found he could see much further into the depths. It was still dark on the far end of the hall, but he could just make out the shapes of the bars, the back wall, the door to the stairs leading further in, where Cash wasn't dumb enough to go.

He slunk into his cell-turned-bedroom, looking at the pitiful pile of blankets and pillow (singular) on the cold stone floor. After setting the lantern down, he spread out the futon, arranging his new pillow and his old one to best effect. He lay down on it, pressing his blind side into the new pillow and letting out an involuntary groan.

It may have been due to weeks of sleeping on the floor, but the futon felt like the softest, warmest thing he had ever laid on in his fucking life.

It took Cash longer than he cared to admit to remember the lantern again. He rolled over to grab it, thinking to turn it off entirely until he saw it had brightness settings. He turned it to the lowest one, the light going from vivid white to a soft, subdued grey. It was just bright enough to light up the area up to the cell door.

Cash slept better than he had in what felt like years. For once, the whispers from the depths couldn't reach his dreams.

* * *

Wine passed by Cash's station daily, sometimes with his notebook in hand, sometimes with a mop and bucket. Cash watched him without meaning to.

Wine took it upon himself to bring Cash his allotment of snacks. Cash never figured out how he did it, not when Cash hoarded his meal vouchers like gold, preferring to con Fell out of his sandwiches in return for getting the high shelves. Cash pretended it had nothing to do with the ache in his shoulder that acted up whenever he got close to the kitchen.

Cash had slipped away to do just that, munching on the peanutbutter and jelly nightmare with sloppy satisfaction as he returned to his post. A few flecks of the gooey mush fell to stain his hoodie as he turned the last corner.

Wine stood by the dungeon entrance, staring at the door which barred his path.

"looking for me?" Cash asked, leaning down to put himself more at eye level with Wine, who turned to face him squarely.

"YOU HAVE THE KEYS TO THIS DOOR, DO YOU NOT?"

Cash felt any mischief he might have been planning shrivel up and die in his nonexistent gut. He straightened his spine as much as he ever did, licking a bit of leftover jelly off his teeth. "yeah."

"UNLOCK THE DOOR, THEN."

"nah." Cash sidestepped the shorter monster, leaning against the sturdy door he had come to grudgingly respect.

"AND WHY NOT?" Wine's soft neutral tone took a hard edge. Cash might have been intimidated if he hadn't gotten the same treatment from Alphys every day of his career.

That was a question that Cash wasn't certain he could answer. Nightmare had never told him exactly what he was guarding the door _from_ , only that he had to guard the door to the dungeon. "no clearance, no bribe, no entry." It was the smart response, at least. "if the boss wanted ya down there, he'd open the door hi-."

There was a soft click, so faint that Cash almost missed it. The door's weight shifted marginally against his back.

"...YOU WERE SAYING?"

Cash had suspected the castle was alive, in its own way. He could only assume that if the doors could lock themselves, they could unlock themselves. He could only assume the act had meaning, fueled by the will of its inscrutable master.

Cash pushed off the door, taking hold of the sturdy, elegant doorknob and giving it a tug. The hinges didn't squeak so much as grind softly against each other. The door opened without incident, letting them both see down into the dark depths.

Cash thought he heard whispers, laughter. A flitting invasive thought skipped across his mind: _Maybe if he had been better at his first job, he wouldn't be there now; how useless was he if the door did a better job than he ever could, and for cheaper._ Cash shook it off, used to the way the dungeon's darkness liked to hammer at the soul. Too bad for it: Cash already knew he was a lowly piece of money grubbing shit, and he'd made peace with that.

Wine's stance shifted from at ease to on edge, staring, unblinking, down into the same darkness that echoed its cutting whispers.

Bending down to take hold of the lantern and flick it to life, Cash smiled. "looks like someone paid your ticket. come on, i'll give ya the tour."

Doing what Nightmare wanted usually meant keeping him in a good mood. Nightmare in a good mood meant a happy, healthy economy.

Wine relaxed marginally, although Cash swore he saw a little twitch of his eyes betraying unease. "VERY WELL."

Cash took the lead, holding the lantern up a little higher than usual. It did well to keep the darkness at bay, although it did less to muffle the whispers. They seemed louder than usual, stronger, as if welcoming a new guest. Cash much preferred their more amiable presence when he was alone, and quietly hoped they would calm once Wine left.

The walk down was as long and monotonous as always.

"HOW FAR DOWN DO THESE STAIRS GO?"

"hundred-thirty-seven steps."

"...AND YOU SAID YOU SLEEP DOWN HERE?"

Another landing, another turn. "yup."

More silence, save for the click of Wine's heels and the plop of Cash's flip-flops.

It was a few more flights before Wine spoke again. "THERE ARE NO OTHER LIGHT SOURCES DOWN HERE..."

"nope. was just me and my phone until this handy doodad."

Silence again. Cash didn't look back, knowing Wine was still behind him from the sound of his footsteps.

When they finally made it to the bottom, Cash held the lantern high and made a sweeping gesture with his other hand. "welcome to the dungeon."

Cash turned to look at Wine, his budding humor drying up at what he saw. Wine was stiff, the bags under his sockets deeper, his eyelights small and quivering.

"...IT IS DARK," he said, softly, a dull observation of immutable fact.

"yeah."

Wine strode forward, a mechanical march. He stopped in front of Cash's makeshift bedroom, looking over the nest of blankets and pillows supported by the futon on the floor. He stood there, staring, and Cash could hear the leather of his gloves strain against the clench of his fists in the roaring silence.

Cash almost wanted to ask him what was on his mind.

Wine pulled out his notebook from inside his clothes, scribbling quickly. The sound of his pen as it scraped the paper told more about his state of mind than the rest of his body language combined, agitated and shaken. Abruptly, he turned away, walking to the far wall, where the light barely reached, still scribbling as he walked. "THERE IS A DOOR BACK HERE."

"yeah. there's another staircase leading down more."

"WHAT IS DOWN THERE?"

"dunno. don't get paid enough to care." All Cash knew was that the voices got louder when he opened that door. That was all he damn well needed to know to decide it wasn't his business.

Wine put his notebook away, pulling out a simple flip phone and flicking the flashlight on. He gripped the doorknob and pulled. The door opened easily for him.

The whispers that were not a sound grew louder, excited, eager. They called. 

"don't." Cash said, an order, a plea. He didn't know what he was decrying; Wine's investigation, the voices' call; everything.

"STAY UP HERE. I WILL RETURN SHORTLY." With that, Wine vanished into the shadows, where Cash's meager light could no longer reach. The sound of his footsteps, the clack of his heels on the stone floor, echoed up to Cash for a few moments, before they too faded.

Cash waited, staring into the gaping abyss that had swallowed Wine whole. He didn't know what he was waiting for. His knees wobbled, the air squeezed out of his chest, too tense to properly breathe.

 _Go after him,_ the voices whispered, almost like a sneer. _Maybe if you hurry you can save him._

Save him from what? Why should he care?

The better question was, why _did_ he care.

Cash couldn't make his legs move any more than it took to sit on the floor.

After too long, too long, Cash heard the click of heels against stone again. The rhythm was slower, irregular compared to the steady, comforting march that Wine had used since their first meeting. When his form finally broke into the light of Cash's lantern, Cash could see that the militant composure had been broken out of him, his form slumped, weighed down by something unseen (or perhaps intangible) to the point that his scarf could drag against the floor. His eyelights were gone entirely.

"...wine?"

"...HE IS AFRAID OF THE DARK." Wine said, stumbling down the hall. "HE IS AFRAID OF THE DARK. IT IS SO DARK. I COULD NOT OPEN-"

Cash could feel the whispers crowding Wine, roaring without noise.

"IT IS SO DARK. I-"

There was the smell of burnt fabric, smoke and ozone. Wine's hands were shaking where he held them in front of his chest. Cash only saw the way the palms of his gloves were burned away, the bones scorched where they had been made exposed, when he got closer.

Cash would have asked him what happened, if his voice had been nice enough to work.

"I CANNOT LEAVE HIM ALONE."

That was the last thing Wine said before a gunshot pierced the air. A bloody red magic construct, something between a gaster blaster and a tommy gun, smoked behind Wine in the shadow of his body. Wine fell to his knees, shattered both inside and out by a madness that Cash knew was not his own.

Cash watched him crumble to dust. He stared at the limp pile, the notebook just peeking out of his shirt. Cash reached for it, pulling it out and flipping it open. Inside he found a detailed (if incomplete) map of the castle. A brief glance showed a number of notes about making some of the empty rooms useful.

One room on the east side was marked off for crafting. Cash found his name under a list for blankets.

Closing the notebook, Cash found his balance, stalking over to the far door that still stood open. He slammed it shut so hard the wood splintered, locking it. He found himself punching it for good measure.

Whatever was down there, if it _ever_ made its way back up, Cash would make it pay, with interest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh. oh with this.  
> with this.
> 
> The next chapter-!!! >:3c


	12. The Tenth Nightmare: Xtale (0.1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cross is Found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is #BeMeanToCross2020 and I have been grinding this out to make sure this arc gets finished before the end of the year <3
> 
> #BeMeanToCross2020 and also a late #HappyBirthdayCross >:3c
> 
> NGL I'm not the _biggest_ fan of Underverse (although it's getting better, my god, i screamed), but i have _so much admiration_ for Jakei and everyone who worked so hard on the project! Like, holy shit, have you SEEN the effort, the passion, the art?!?!?! Underverse Season 2 just started! You can watch it [here](https://youtu.be/FygB1WMEzQQ) if you haven't already! Or [binge Season 1](https://youtu.be/DRIw5N1YQ3k) and [the Xtale Movie](https://youtu.be/iGdb18DfWMg) instead like I did before writing this XD.
> 
> We stan a dude who puts that much work into their AU. I can only hope I did Xtale justice.

Cross sat in the pile of loose papers, pointedly ignoring the idyllic, childish images he hadn't had the heart to slash out.

 _'Why not? You didn't have a problem slashing out the real things,'_ Chara sneered in his ear, in what was left of his soul.

"shut up." Cross pulled his turtle neck up higher, practically covering his face with it, as if it could ward the hateful bastard away.

 _'If you had just listened to me and done what I told you-'_ what was left of the human started again.

Cross picked up the nearest thing he could get his hands on (a yellow crayon) and chucked it at the hallucination of the ghost tethered to him. The crayon flew through the air (or was it air? Cross had never strictly needed to breathe, and the universe was gone, so the question of whether or not there was any actual air left was both legitimate and irrelevant), passing through Chara's shade and flying a fair distance until it fell back to the endless white of their purgatorial hell. It cracked in half, each piece rolling away in a different direction.

Chara leveled Cross with an unimpressed face. _'Real mature.'_

"i said _shut up!_ "

_'What are you going to do? Stab me?'_

Cross tried to do just that, reaching for a weapon construct. By this point, it was a toss up if what he pulled out was a bone or a knife, but either would be equally effective. He swung (a rather large blade) at Chara, again and again, until he was exhausted from his futile efforts.

Chara wasn't going anywhere.

_'And whose fault is that, idiot?'_

"i hate you," Cross tried to growl, although he heard his voice come out weak. Just like the rest of him. "i'll never forgive you."

_'Holding a grudge isn't going to change anything.'_

"you don't get to be reasonable now!"

_'I don't get to be anything now, except disappointed. In you. I get to be real disappointed in you, Cross.'_

Cross gave one last, tired swipe before he collapsed back on his ass, crumpling the papers under him. "i don't care anymore."

Chara pretended to sit next to him. _'You never were a good liar.'_

What was there to say to that?

Cross just hoped Ink came back soon. It was easier to forget just how much everything hurt when he wasn't alone.

Well, alone with _him_.

Cross couldn't tell how long he sat there, waiting, only that by the time he heard footsteps behind him, he wasn't as tired from his outburst.

"ink? is that you?" Cross started to turn.

Before he'd even finished the motion, he heard a noise, like the strum of a wire, the buzz of a fly. He felt pressure on his limbs, then a sharp wrenching motion as he was abruptly yanked up.

Before Cross knew what was happening, he was tangled and restrained by a tight net of cobalt strings, suspended from above and left to hang helplessly. He couldn't even turn to see what had hit him.

" **sO tHiS iS wHaT tHaT aBoMiNaTiOn HaS bEeN hIdInG,** " said a voice too deep to be real, a voice that jittered like a bad recording, laced with static like the silk song of a vinyl record. The footsteps drew closer until a rather unsettling entity stepped into view: a skeleton of black and red bones, with sockets aglow from within by crimson light, eyelights unsettling in their blues and golds. The patchwork clothes, seemingly mended and extended by the same strings that held Cross captive, did little to soften the alarming image.

 _'What the hell is that?!'_ Cross's only consolation seemed to be that Chara was as disturbed as he was.

" **nOt ToO mUcH hErE, iS tHeRe? Or Is ThErE sOmEoNe ElSe ErAsInG aNoMaLiEs NoW?** " The other smirked. " **wOuLdN't ThAt Be NiCe, To HaVe SoMe HeLp ClEaNiNg Up AlL tHiS mEsS?** "

The strings holding Cross's body captive constricted, digging into his bones like razor wire. The sudden pressure-pain made his every nerve and joint lock up.

" **iF i EvEr FiNd ThE bAsTaRd, I'lL kIlL tHeM!!**

Cross tried to struggle, to escape, but every move he made only dug the strings deeper into his body. He heard himself scream. He heard Chara screaming with him.

Then they both felt the pressure, the agony, of those strings tightening around their fused soul, only to _pull_.

" **aS fOr ThIs..?** " The freak twitched his fingers, coaxing Cross's soul closer like a skilled puppeteer. The strings attached to his fingers shimmered, taut, in the ambient light of the empty world.

Cross felt the burn in his chest where Chara was trying to refuse. It hurt almost as bad as everything else happening to him.

His vision swam.

Cross heard voices. A second voice.

Ink..?

The strings went slack. Cross's last moments of consciousness lingered on how literally he was Falling Down.

* * *

When Cross wakes up, his hands are in front of him. They look like his hands. They look like Chara's hands a little more. He feels Chara's voice quiver in his throat, a hot, desperate laugh of freedom, of relief.

Somehow, they're alive.

"hey..." Ink croaks from behind them. Cross (or perhaps Chara, because Cross is too numb, too stunned, to respond to anything) turns to look over his shoulder. Ink is on the ground, one arm bent at an angle that arms weren't meant to be bent, with a leg to match. His clothes are cut and stained in black patches that looked suspiciously more like blood than usual, if only from the patterns. He looks like a corpse, like a tiny china doll, discarded after being played with until it broke. He looks broken, all except in his face, which is as cheerful and unbothered as it ever was, expression perfectly, unnaturally, horrifically curated to something pleasant and inviting. "you okay?"

Chara laughs. Cross can hear it inside their shared body: _'Now is my chance! I'll just escape and go find a new soul!'_ As if souls were replaceable. Cross feels him reach into the dry well where their magic used to be, dredging up DETERMINATION like one would scrape the leftover sludge out of a used cook-pot. He snaps their fingers, and Cross feels the drop in their metaphorical stomach, the lurch as they lean into a fall through spacetime to reach somewhere else.

It is like that moment when you walk up the steps in the dark, expecting one more step than there is, and your foot slams down on the ground at the top. Chara takes that step, but there is nowhere else to go. They don't move.

Chara tries again, and Cross can feel his confusion. He had done such jumps through spacetime so many times before, his memories of it washing over Cross in a flood of mundanity. Chara tries again, and again, his anxiety building with each failure.

Cross feels sick. "stop- stop it, it isn't working-"

"It has to work! I have control, it _needs to work-_ "

Cross feels the strength leave their legs, sending them back to the endless white floor. Sweat slicks down his neck, down his jaw, dripping off Chara's nose, clinging to his hair, to the lining of Cross's hood.

Cross feels the despair before it registers to him what exactly it means.

"I can't be stuck here! I have to- I- I refuse to die here-!!" Chara beats their fist against the floor with all his might, gritting his teeth so hard it makes Cross's skull ache. "I refuse-! I refuse-!!"

"just give up," Cross spits. "it's over."

"It's _never_ over!"

Cross presses his consciousness up against the metaphorical wall, leaning into it until he can shove their body ( _his body, damn it, he would die in his own fucking body at least_ ) over onto its side. Cross still feels sick and heavy, the sickest he has ever felt in his life.

Cross feels the desperate despair mixing with his own hopelessness, but more than anything, without his soul to draw the line between them, Cross feels Chara's blinding, unmitigated **hate**. It seeps into his marrow, burning like lava injected fresh from the deepest pits of hell. It scorches at what bit of himself is left, leaving him trembling, leaving him afraid, because it mixes far too easily with the righteous fury that drove him to the worst mistake he had ever made.

Cross hates himself for succumbing to that. He hates that it is so easy to let it in again.

" **You...** " Says a voice that Cross does not recognize.

"...no. he's mine! go somewhere else, please." Ink says, cheerful, pleasant, completely incongruous with the words he seems to be trying to convey.

Cross looks up. Standing a few feet away is what he thinks is a person, although even from the floor they look short. They are cloaked from head to toe, dripping in a dark ooze that is just short of being pitch black, specular as oil with a deep purple tinge that makes Chara recoil by association. Slimy, dripping, boneless tendrils squirm from under the cloak, most peeking out from beneath the hem, slithering over the ground like feelers, leaving a slime trail in their wake, although one has squeezed out from the neckline and hangs limp over their shoulder. The only things not drenched in the stinking ooze are the silvery clasp holding their cloak in place, the matching circlet on their brow, and their left eyesocket, from which a single piercing violet pip shines.

Chara hates that eyelight. It reminds him of XGaster, reminds him of the feeling of being seen through, of being known, of being taken apart and put back together by something, someone, beyond understanding. Cross feels that hate seep into him, and he hates that color too: it reminds him of Chara. As he looks into that eyelight, though, he does not feel what he felt for XGaster at all.

Cross's body trembles with awe.

The creature continues to close the distance between them, coming to a halt between Ink and Cross. The ooze on their body red-shifts, going from that hateful purple to a steely, cold blue, and then again to an even colder, uglier, sickening green, all as pitch as night, making the white abyss around them even more blinding. They stare into the endless distance, not looking at either Ink or Cross, but Cross can see the tremble in the shattered slits that their eyelight has become.

He can smell fermented fruit and decay, spice and rubber and something unpleasant. After so long being in the emptiness that their universe had become, the strength and pervasiveness of that scent is dizzying. Chara moves, scrambling back from the source in a reverse crab walk, unwilling to put his back to the stranger.

Sudden as a whip, one of those tendrils snaps out to the side without their owner looking. It moves so quickly, Cross can feel Chara's fear splatter against him like a misted spray.

"no," Ink says, rasps, shouts, and for the first time his voice is hollow, as empty and devoid of emotion as the doll he appears.

The slime creature pays him no more mind than any other bit of furniture. The tendril rummages in Ink's clothes, grabbing something, pulling it to inspect in front of their face.

Chara and Cross see the purple glow from within the tiny, inconspicuous vial. Chara goes cold with fury, his hate warring with his fear. All Cross can feel is an empty echo of betrayal.

" **Did you think I would not find you?** " the creature asks, a sharp, manic edge to their voice. " **Did you think I would not smell your rot? I have known the likes of you since before you knew yourself. I know you. I know what you desire.** " The creature's body trembles, something under their cloak squirming in great thrashing movements.

"give that back," Ink demands, hollow and soft, loud and devouring. He still lays limp, unmoving save for a trembling in his chest like he is trying to will his body animate. His efforts are made all the more futile by the tendril that impales him. Cross hears the crunch and snap of broken ribs.

Ink coughs, wheezes, and struggles to make more audible demands that he cannot seem to project any more.

The entity never even looks at him, all their thrashing, trembling focus on the shard of XGaster's soul in their clutches.

" **Your desires will never be fulfilled. The likes of you deserve only one thing-** "

The vial cracks, crushed in the tentacle's constrictive grip. The shard of soul attempts to escape, but the tendril tightens onto it, uncaring of the broken glass shredding them both in the process. Faster than a blink, the purple coloring is drained from the soul shard.

A hand slides out from under the cloak, and the OVERWRITE button shines to life at its fingertips.

Chara screams. Cross screams with him. He doesn't know why he's screaming anymore, only that the hate and guilt and betrayal that has branded itself into their shared being demands it.

" **The anguish of having _nothing_ to live for.**" With that, the creature crushes the OVERWRITE button, crumpling it to pieces in their fist like a withered autumn leaf. They hold that pose for a breath, then two, before slowly opening their palm to show the glittering remains of the most powerful ability Cross and Chara have ever known, then drop them to the floor and crush them under their heel into powder.

Chara doesn't understand. Cross doesn't understand. They are both screaming, crying, raging, but neither one of them can make himself move.

The entity crushes XGaster's withered soul with far less flair, a chore as opposed to a performance. They shake the tendril as if flicking off something filthy from their body, watching the scattered dust drift to the floor, uncountable, infinitely small pieces scattered to statistical oblivion.

The empty world is silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dr33mtal3 unfortunately (or, fortunately) changes a lot about the XEvent :3


	13. The Tenth Nightmare: Xtale (0.2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cross is Taken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a surprise hit me in this chapter
> 
> i wonder if it will hit you too

Cross listens to his and Chara's desperate breathing. It syncs with the shuddered trembles of the entity, whose thrashing tendrils slowly calm and whose shimmer blue-shifts back to the cold, numb blues that Cross can feel ache in his own chest.

The entity slowly turns to face him. Cross feels Chara shake. Cross feels himself shake with them.

" **You...** " The creature takes one step, then another, approaching Cross, leaving a smeared trail of dark color in their wake across the empty white floor. Cross cannot look away. Cross can barely remember to breathe.

A tendril reaches for Cross, twisting in elegant curls as it does. " **You will do. I will take you as-** " They stop, the tendril flinching back mere inches from Cross' chest. " **...How is there nothing to take..? Another husk..?** "

Cross feel's Chara's indignation at the insinuation, but he can't find the words to refute it.

" **...No... not a husk.** " The tendril surges forward, curling itself around Cross and squeezing just shy of pain. " **But still emptied. Tell me, mortal, what would you do to have your essence returned?** "

Cross is drowning in the depths of the creature's gaze.

"Anything," Chara answers. _'Not that it will matter. Once we get our soul back, I'll fix everything... Somehow. No thanks to you.'_

The creature continues to stare into the empty place where Cross' soul used to be. The steely blue pip narrows to a dangerous slit. " **Will you swear this body to my service?** "

"yes," Cross answers, finding his voice. He can feel a weak heat curl in his chest, his face, the lines under where the tendrils squeeze him.

The smirk that curls the entity's teeth sends a shiver down Cross' spine. His gaze lingers on those newly exposed, sharp, gleaming canines without his consent. " **Then it is agreed.** " The words settle in the air like a physical weight, like a church bell rung in warning, like a storm-wind winding in a rush through the branches of a tree.

Cross feels more alive than he ever remembers feeling.

_'You have got to be kidding me.'_

The tendrils uncurl from Cross, leaving him upright on shaky legs. He watches the slimy appendages retract back under the entity's cloak, catching a glimpse of their simple boots as the soaked fabric shifts. The entity walks in what appears in Cross's mind to be an arbitrary direction, stops, then falls through the floor as a chasm of black ooze opens beneath them.

Cross never even got the creature's name.

 _'You. Have GOT. To be kidding me.'_ Chara sounds as exasperated and incredulous as Cross can feel he is.

"what?!" Cross demands, prodding at the slime left on his clothes with two fingers. It is cool to the touch, sticky and cloying where it has not started to harden and flake away.

_'What the hell was that?'_

"what was _what_?"

 _'Ugh, never mind.'_ Cross isn't certain when it was that control had switched away from Chara, but he can see the projection of his shade float by his side. The child-in-name-only crosses his arms. _'You're a disaster.'_

"you're dead, shut up."

Chara flips Cross off. _'Whatever. At least he might come back with a soul for us.'_

"and if they don't?"

_'Then we'll both be screwed, and it won't matter.'_

Cross doesn't like that idea, but he knows Chara is right. The leftover Determination in their shared system is already starting to fade. The burn feels less and less with each passing moment, and Cross knows that Determination isn't meant to burn cold.

A wet noise brings Cross' attention back to the only other person left. Ink is quivering on the floor, splattered in both the entity's ooze and his own inky-black fluids. He still looks like a broken science display, if a little more mangled.

Not mangled enough.

Cross closes the distance between them, bringing his leg back and kicking as hard as he can right before he tries to stop. Ink makes a wet wheeze, flying through the air in uncontrolled, flailing twists. He skips across the floor like a flat rock on a still pond, leaving artful black splatters at each point of impact until he skids like a car wreck on black ice to a painfully slow stop.

Cross skids through the still-wet ink puddle that had pooled where Ink had lain, staining his white boots and dragging the pigment with him in a skid mark. "fuck you," is all he can think to say.

Cross had lost his eloquence a long time ago, if he ever had it. Simple, direct words serve him well enough.

Somewhat satisfied, Cross pointedly stomps on a picture of himself and Ink together as he walks back in the opposite direction. The black footprints he leaves in his wake are oddly satisfying.

It is as he is admiring those footprints that Cross hears another unusual noise. When he turns to investigate (fully ready to use what is left of his strength to fight anything and anyone he has to), he cannot see for certain what it is or where it is coming from. The infinite white abyss camouflages the blindingly bright golden glow excellently, and it takes him triangulating the reflections and refractions off the ink stains to find the exact point to squint at.

The noise, a sort of phasing sound, a shift in a wind that isn't actually blowing, grows louder as a boot appears out of the golden light. A leg follows the boot, and then the rest of a (small) body. What comes through last are a pair of huge, glorious golden wings, which make great strokes in the air as the portal vanishes.

The empty universe is immediately filled with ambient _something_ , a smell filling a room, a color staining water, light banishing darkness. Cross feels his legs threaten to give out under him, as he is suddenly and irreparably overwhelmed by the mind shattering presence of the divine.

The angel smoothes out their skirt, delicate fingers fixing nonexistent imperfections as their disproportionately huge, glorious wings flutter behind them. Sparkling gold glitter powder rains down from their feathers, like crystalline light as fine as sand, as sugar. When they turn to look at Cross, he feels himself falling, lost in the golden radiance of their knowing eyelights, infinite and inviting.

_'What the hell is that?!'_

Cross pays him no mind. He finds himself taking first one step, then another, drawn like a moth to a flame. The emptiness in his chest aches, and the angel smiling at him feels like everything that can exist to fill the void made manifest. It is like looking at a feast to a starving man. It is like hearing the patter of rain in a desert. Cross is empty, and an angel has come to make him whole.

And Cross is suddenly, inexplicably, _happy_.

 _'No! Get away from it!'_ Cross feels Chara thrashing. He feels him try to take control back, kicking and screaming.

The joy that the angel's smile brings is stronger. Cross decides to ignore the human.

" _Hello. I do not believe we have met before,_ " the angel says, folding their hands behind their back. " _You may call me 'Dream'. What may I call you?_ "

"cross," Cross mumbles, his own voice unpleasantly grating after hearing such ethereal tones.

" _It is a pleasure, Cross,_ " Dream says. Hearing that name in that voice makes Cross love it instantly.

 _'You're a disaster bisicle!'_ Chara hisses. _'Get ahold of yourself!'_

" _And what should I call your companion, Cross?_ "

Cross stiffens. He knows he hasn't indicated the human at all. "...chara. his name is chara."

" _So it is,_ " Dream says slowly, his smile shifting to something strained. Cross can see the angel's delicate, slender shoulders brace against a great weight. The moment is there and gone in a blink, and Dream returns to their soft, knowing smile and welcoming gaze. " _Cross, I feel there is an emptiness in you. You are missing something important, are you not?_ "

"uh. yeah...?" Cross had nearly forgotten the emptiness in his chest where his soul had been. He can't get past just how happy he is, how alive he feels. He can barely think about anything beyond how wonderful it is to be alive, in this moment, with Dream.

_'You're useless and that thing is dangerous. We need to run.'_

Dream glances at something just over Cross's shoulder, his large wings fluttering behind him. Their smile turns wry, their eye sockets deforming with a self-indulgent glee, and for the briefest moment, the gold of those eyelights shifts to something even more vibrant and beautiful than before.

The moment is gone, and the powerful, pale gold returns, just as Dream looks Cross in the eyes. " _Would you like me to fill the void in you?_ "

"please," Cross blurts.

The angel's smile sharpens. Cross cannot decide what he needs to focus on more: the newly exposed, sharp, gleaming canines, or the bottomless depths of those eyelights that Cross would happily fall into forever. " _Then it is agreed._ " Dream's voice is still musical, still alluring, but the words settle in the air like a physical weight, like a church bell rung in warning, like a storm-wind winding in a rush through the branches of a tree.

Cross holds very, very still, as delicate hands reach up and settle on his chest. Dream's wings spread in a grand display, sending glittering gold sparks in all directions. This close, Cross feels as if he is basking in a sunbeam on a summer day, warmth seeping into his chilled bones. The angel's eyes never look away from his own, looking up at him from under the ridge of their sockets.

The heat magnifies. It is strongest where Dream's bare fingers lay spread over Cross's ribcage. The warmth builds, the joy builds.

Suddenly, there is a rush of magic, of _something_. A supersonic boom goes off in Cross's chest, the sound of displaced existence, of energy phasing into place and filling a void so fast the backlash crashes into the walls of his body. Cross staggers back like he's been punched, ribs aching in agreement. He clutches at the places where Dream's hands had lingered, where it feels like he barely grazed against a white hot iron.

The _something_ inside Cross squirms, forcing itself into the mold of his lost soul, compressing itself before abruptly flooding his system. His mana lines tingle and throb, buzzing just on the right side of agony, wires overcharged by a strike of lightning.

Cross doubles over, coughing up what feels like gallons of hot cider and liquid light, splattering the floor between himself and the angel in reds, oranges, and golds.

 _'Holy shit,'_ Chara whispers, sounding as raw and wrung out as Cross feels.

The discomfort fades, leaving Cross shaken and weary. Something warm beats in his chest, humming with vitality, filling his every atom with renewed vigor. Cross sinks to his knees and pulls on the new, foreign object nestled in his essence. What manifests in his hand is an upside down heart, white like stars are white, wisping in golds and oranges and reds. A few thin, fragile threads of purple and cyan linger in its depths, echoes of what was left of his original soul.

" _Is this well, Cross?_ " Dream asks, folding their wings back in. " _Does this make you happy?_ "

Cross's body trembles. Chara trembles inside him. The pain is fading, their makeup reaching a livable equilibrium.

They are both the happiest they have been in a long time.

Cross puts his newly forged soul (a gift from an angel, a gift he will treasure forever) safely back in his chest. He holds his hands out, and tests what his magic can do. Chara's crimson knives come easily, plentiful. Cross's blasters take form, although a strange sigil is branded on their forehead. His long, single-bladed broadsword shines in vivid steel, showing that same sigil etched into the flat near the hilt.

The OVERWRITE button still does not manifest. Cross wants to be upset, but he can't seem to dredge up anything even close to disappointment.

 _'Hope isn't lost yet,'_ Chara whispers, sounding out of breath. Cross can feel his rage simmering just out of reach, separated from him by a pane of metaphorical glass. _'I can feel it. It is still here. We still have it.'_

Cross isn't sure it matters if they can't use it, but at this point, he's just glad to not be dying. "this makes me real happy," Cross finally answers.

Tension bleeds off of the angel, their wings fluffing up behind them. Cross sees a soft gold blush tinge their maxilla and zygomatic. " _Then it is well._ " Sweat slicks down the side of their skull. Cross finally notices the damp patches where their shirt clings to their arms.

Dream turns abruptly, making their slit cape flutter around them. " _Oh! Ink, yes, I am here._ " They walk calmly towards the mess still puddled uselessly on the floor where Cross had left him.

Cross wants to hate him, wants to rage at how Ink takes advantage of the angel's good and pure nature, just like he took advantage of Cross' ignorance. The fury tries to swell, only to wither under the weight of Cross's joy and relief. He is far too happy to hate.

 _'Then I will hate him for you,'_ Chara all but promises. His rage is muffled by a haze of contentment. Cross is uncertain if that speaks more to the influence bringing them joy, or the sheer viciousness of the human's ire.

Cross watches as the angel rearranges Ink to a more natural position, setting broken bones. He can hear soft, melodic murmurs that sound far too fond to be directed at that traitor, but he cannot bring himself to approach.

 _'We should leave,'_ Chara whispers.

"where are we gonna go?" Cross asks, still transfixed on the resplendence of Dream's delicate form.

_'Let me. I know a place.'_

"maybe i wanna stay here."

 _'Maybe you want to forget about everyone we lost because of you, but I refuse-'_ The human snarls, their very will a high pitch screech that echoes in the fog of Cross's tranquility.

" **Did not your sire raise you to respect the property and propriety of others?** " The deep voice booms from behind Cross. Tendrils coil around his body, squeezing until he cannot breathe, knocking away some of the fog clouding his mind. " **Or do such niceties not apply to one whose very presence is a gift to the world?** "

Cross almost- He almost let himself forget- He almost-

_'I fucking told you-!!'_

Dream stiffens at the sound. Ink is mended enough to prop himself upright with one hand, looking back over at Cross with a grotesquely cheery smile. Dream spins, one wing curling protectively over Ink's body, the other out in an impressive, intimidating flare. They stretch out their hand, and a blinding light resolves into a bow nearly as long as they are tall. An arrow of golden light is nocked, aimed directly at Cross- or, more specifically, at the creature _behind_ Cross.

" _Release Cross to me,_ " Dream demands sweetly. " _He has nothing to do with you._ "

" **...'Cross' is it?** " The entity says the word like they're tasting it. Cross feels the tendrils loosen their grip on him, leaving his bones tingling in curled arcs. He feels like a bruise that has been manhandled, but he can breathe again. 

Cross might have been able to think, if not for the tendril slung so casually around his shoulders, looped close to his throat. Even as he stares straight ahead into the light of Dream's arrow, their eyelights hardened over a smile sharp enough to cut steel, Cross is inordinately aware of how effortlessly the entity could constrict that appendage, crushing the breath from him.

" _Give him back, Nightmare._ " Dream pulls his string back a little tighter. A warning if Cross ever saw one.

The entity, Nightmare, chuckles, low and dry and close. Cross knows that Nightmare is shorter than him, but he feels the entity looming at his back, so much bigger than they have any right to be. " **You know my answer to that.** "

A hand settles on Cross's shoulder. There is a swish of damp fabric. A slender, trembling hand dripping in the black ooze of the entity curls around Cross, showing everyone the fragile frankenstein soul that had been stolen from him.

" **I have fulfilled my bargain. As promised, your body is now sworn to my service.** "

Cross feels Chara reach hungrily for their shared soul, for the power they can both feel still locked inside.

Dream lets his arrow fly.

Nightmare drags Cross to the side, dodging the attack that flies true. Dream's arrow cuts through the air where they had been standing, fast enough to leave an afterimage of light, fast enough to knock them both over with the shockwave of its passing.

Cross hears a startled yelp, the rustle of papers. His neck nearly snaps with how fast he turns to look.

 _'Alphys?!'_ Chara's emotions are tumultuous, a strange mixture of hate, regret, relief, and fear.

Cross wants to be grateful to have a piece of his family left. He can't be. He feels sick, thinking of all the things they won't be able to say to each other. He feels sick that he isn't immediately relieved to see someone who was so close to him still alive.

Cross sees tendrils coil tight around Alphys, and then feels himself yanked along with her in another direction. There is another shockwave, another blur of light.

" **His pact is with me. And you have no power to interfere,** " Nightmare practically crows, a vicious victoriousness dripping from their every syllable.

Cross never would have heard how heavy they were breathing if he were not held so close.

" _He accepted my gift!_ "

The entity lunges left and right, dragging Cross and Alphys with them as they weave through streaks of light. They move like a dance, like something otherworldly. The angel's arrows never come close to striking either himself or Alphys.

Cross can see the ageless, unblinking resolve in Dream's eyes, the holes in Nightmare's cloak where it billows around them.

" **Gifts are not given with strings. Or do you want I should return it to you?** "

Cross is uncertain exactly what they mean (distracted by the rush of combat and the shock of finding another survivor) until his newly gifted soul is pulled from his chest. Cross goes still, watching the entity's tendril curl across the unblemished surface, leaving a translucent slime trail that Cross can feel in every bone of his body.

Dream smiles flat and wide. Cross sees his arm go slack. Nightmare's snicker slides down Cross's spine like a living thing.

Cross' new soul is shoved back into his chest, and then he is dragged down, down, down into a portal of liquid darkness. The last things he sees before being swallowed by the dark are the angel's strained smile, and Ink's manic one, as they watch him disappear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :333


	14. The Tenth Nightmare: Xtale (0.3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cross is Claimed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wraps up the last little details of import for Cross coming to Nightmare's castle

The world resolves into a slightly lighter darkness than the darkness through which they had traveled. Cross takes a deep, desperate breath, uncertain if it is in panic or relief.

Nightmare's tendrils drop him unceremoniously to the cold stone floor, the sudden jarring motion (so soon after such unexpected travel, after so many shocks and emotions and disorientating reveals) leaving Cross unable to keep his balance. Nearby, he hears Alphys yelp, and papers rustle. When he looks, she is on her knees, gathering loose sheets which seem to glow as if under a blacklight.

All around him, Cross feels as if the walls are buzzing, breathing, like the darkness of the dimly lit hall is somehow alive.

" **Now, on to the matter at hand,** " Nightmare says, cool and unruffled as if nothing had occurred. Many of the tendrils that had been at play recede into their cloak, fluttering the damp material, sending drops of ooze to stain the already dark tiles. The few left exposed wave gently in the air, listless and purposeless in their elegant arches that drip even more ooze to the floor.

Nightmare turns to face them, their eyelight resolved into that unsettling purple that still sets Chara on edge. From under their cloak, they once more produce Cross and Chara's shared soul.

Cross reaches for it, desperate for that piece of himself, the bit of him left after all the bullshit he had been through, but Nightmare grips his wrist, stopping him just short. " **Patience, Cross. This is useless to you as you are....** "

"it's mine," Cross says, unthinking of anything else. "we had a deal!" The way that tendril curls up and around Cross's arm is a special kind of distracting, but having what is left of the culmination of his very being so close and yet so far takes precedence.

" **Indeed we did.** " Nightmare agrees readily, that sharp smirk returning to his face. The gleam of his canines draws Cross's attention, so Cross does not see the way another tendril lunges at him until it is too late.

Cross feels the slick, wet pressure on his new soul, feels the sickening tug as it is pulled out of his body. The heavy, empty dizziness that immediately overwhelms him pulls the metaphorical rug out from under Cross, and the only thing that ends up holding him upright is the tendril still tangled around his arm.

Cross hates this feeling, and for some reason, now, in this castle that would presumably become his new home, he has no problem feeling the full spectrum of his own hate, independent of the hate scorching him from Chara.

Nightmare inspects Cross's gifted second soul, their eyelight shifting to a cold, steely blue. Cross feels their gaze like a weight, like a feather grazing across the surface, like a needle piercing to his core.

Cross and Chara both feel the agony when, simultaneously, Nightmare rips both souls in half, separating the human from the monster in one swift, deliberate motion. Cross hears himself scream, he hears Chara scream, he feels himself start to fall apart-

Except he doesn't. He hangs there, in agony, hollowed out and trembling for a second time.

Nightmare takes the four halves of two souls, inspecting them, their tendrils stroking and prodding with a clinical precision. Bits of throbbing red determination are extracted from the fragile white of Cross's soul, and returned to Chara's. Cross watches as Nightmare weighs the pieces in his tendrils, and moves carefully measured shards from one half of the golden soul to the other, as if to balance some imaginary scale. Then, delicate white is removed from the stubborn red of Chara's soul, and placed back into Cross's, and the process of weighing and balancing happens again. Cross feels every bit of it, like his insides are being rearranged. It reminds him of having broken bones set, the agony and subsequent relief that follows analogous in too many measurable ways.

Nightmare checks and checks again for something Cross cannot comprehend, until finally, finally, the ripping and mending stops. Nightmare takes Cross's quivering white soul fragment, and coaxes it towards a mirroring half of gold. The two pieces fuse, soft, like water droplets adhering into one, and Cross takes in a breath. There is an echo of completion from Chara as Nightmare does the same to them, before somehow, for better or worse, Cross loses all contact with him.

Nightmare shoves Cross's soul (his and only his, what he was given by his creator and by his savior) into his chest, and Cross feels himself jumpstarted. There is a tenuous moment where the newly merged energies scrape uncomfortably inside him, and Cross thinks he might be sick. The moment never resolves, fading as who he was and who he is begin to twist and harmonize.

The tendril keeping Cross upright abruptly drops him, leaving him to sprawl across the slime soaked tiles.

" **Index,** " Nightmare intones, looking at the soul that must logically be wholly and completely Chara.

Alphys flinches, clutching her papers tighter. "Y-yes, master?"

" **See to it that Cross is issued a new uniform. The style of his previous garb will suffice.** "

Cross pushes himself upright, his newly returned soul pounding with rising anxieties. _Chara is gone. He doesn't have the OVERWRITE power. His world is destroyed. His friends and family are dead. He can't fix it. He can't fix it. He-_

"If- If I may ask, how..?" Alphys asked softly, her voice trembling.

Nightmare snaps his head to the side. He stares into her. Cross can see the building sweat slick down her face and neck, can see how her hunched body trembles.

Cross wonders what it was she saw that made her cow so quickly to a new master, to respond so readily to a new name.

" **Materials await you in the crafting chamber,** " Nightmare says, slow and deliberate. A tendril elongates, twisting and winding down the hall until it slaps against a door over a hundred feet away. " **See that you do not disappoint me. You would not like to disappoint me, Index.** "

Alphys- Index- cringes under his gaze, under the weight of his words.

Cross cannot bring himself to care. The grief of all he has lost is overwhelming. He almost wishes he was still soulless; perhaps such numbness is its own mercy.

Another tendril shoves a door next to them open. " **Your room, Cross.** " Nightmare says. " **When Index delivers your new garb, you will begin your work as my castle's steward. Do not disappoint me.** "

Nightmare holds Cross's gaze, deep and all consuming in its knowing, its depth, until he vanished through the floor, swallowed as if he had never been there at all.

The walls still buzz. The floor buzzes. The slime is warm and fragrant of rubber and cider and malice. Cross sits there, unmoving, for a long breath.

Then he slams his fist so hard to the floor at his side he feels the tile shatter.

Alphys- no, _Index_ \- jumps away from him, eyes wide behind her glasses. She clutches her papers tighter, backing up first one step, then another, before bolting full speed down the hall. Cross watches her open and slam the door behind her. He imagines her locking it.

As if that would be what saves her now.

Cross cannot bring himself to care anymore. That is the only thing that keeps him from going for her traitor head.

Slowly, Cross finds his footing on the slick, sticky floor, and stumbles into the room that was given to him. All he finds inside is a single key and a ring of a hundred others.

Cross doesn't care. He locks his door, slumps into a corner, and finally lets himself cry.

* * *

Cross has no idea how long he had been there, in the dark of that windowless, lampless room, when he hears the handle of his door jimmy. Next he hears two knocks in quick succession.

Cross gets up, wiping the last of his tears away. They sparkle with a soft, red light, glittering like a tacky bioluminescent bath bomb powder had gotten mixed in. The glitter thankfully evaporates with the rest of the spent magic, but Cross feels like he's covered in it. It's a stupid thing to be self conscious about after everything else that's happened to him, but little things add up.

Cross opens the door.

The hallway is devoid of slime. The broken tile is replaced.

Index has a pile of armour and clothes in her arms. She offers them to Cross without looking.

Cross takes them quickly, if only so he has an excuse to slam his door in her face. It's loud. It's childish. It doesn't make him feel better.

Cross happily strips out of the stupid uniform that only reminds him of how he lost everything. He has to empty his pockets.

He finds his phone (somehow, useless as it is). He finds a few candy wrappers.

The only thing he can't bring himself to take off is the stupid heart locket. He hates it irrationally. If anyone tried to take it from him, he'd probably bite off their arm.

It is darker than Cross might have liked, but he can see and feel the shape of the new clothes. It's familiar, the style one that he has so many memories of wearing in the royal guard before it all went to hell. He slips the shirt and pants on easily, then just as easily dons the pauldrons, couters, belt, greaves, and sabatons.

Cross recalls a poignant memory of his brother chastising him for wearing so little armor. Just like then, all Cross can think is that the weight is comfortable, and like this, he can pull his hoodie on against the cold.

Before the hoodie, Cross ties the kerchief around his neck, hiding the heart locket from sight. The purple-black fabric, of which his shirt and trousers are also made, is thick and plush, soft as the finest cotton and smooth as silk. It smells of something organic, of fruit and a gentle musk that brings to mind library books that have stood the test of time. The armor is a starkly bright silver metal, quantifiably lighter than his old steel armor, but a few good strikes prove it to be just as sturdy.

Cross doesn't know how to feel about it anymore.

He doesn't know how to feel about anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> t-x seconds until i put a bad illustration of dr33mtal3 cross here so yall can see how cute he is in his armor and scarf


	15. The Eleventh Nightmare: Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xtale Alphys - Index - Has some last minute thoughts about life in the castle.
> 
> Cross is involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Its still #BeMeanToCross2020 for a few more hours :3

Index clipped the protective cover of her special new folder shut, stroking over the hard enamel cover. She had all the notes, papers, and files from her work under Lord XGaster, the code for everything she had ever known and loved, dutifully preserved.

Even if she wanted to, Index couldn't summon them through her own power. The only one left who _could_ was...

Well, Lord Nightmare and Lord XGaster were very different people. Unlike her old master, her new one was not so proud as to need an audience for his achievements, or share his secrets. Index had no idea what befell Chara.

It baffled her, honestly. Lord Nightmare had taken control of the OVERWRITE button, yet instead of using it, he destroyed it. She could've never imagined in her wildest dreams a creature who would reject ultimate power.

Neither could Lord XGaster.

She should have been angry. She should have hated him. All Index could really think was that she was relieved that it was over.

She only wished more had survived, even if she knew they were all just the imaginings of a madman.

She wasn't well suited to such existential despair.

The enamel cover of her special folder clicked smoothly under her claws. Index hadn't expected Lord Nightmare's discharge to be so versatile. It had been terribly easy to mold it to the form she needed, and only a little waiting for it to dry into a cast. She had only needed to anchor the magic with a bit of dirt and paper shreds (and of course make sure the samples she gathered weren't terribly toxic; she'd learned the hard way not to touch the green sheen with her bare hands, her one finger still aching from the chemical burn it had left her with). Set properly, it was hard as stone, the color and texture identical to the walls of the castle.

Index let herself wallow in her tiny, fundamentally pointless achievement, thumbing the cover tenderly once more before sliding it onto the empty bookshelf she had made in her room. She had considered storing it in the library, but she wasn't certain how safe it would be.

The very idea of anything happening to the last vestiges of her home sent Index into a spiraling panic. No, better to keep them all safe, close, locked away and preserved from any further harm.

Satisfied with her paltry work, Index sat on her tiny beanbag chair (a burlap potato sack that was actually filled with dirt, but it was softer than the floor and held in more warmth). Her room, which she had chosen herself, was on the smaller side for the castle. It was still huge, more room than she'd ever had to herself in all the years she'd been allowed to remember. It was empty, cold, and dark, the walls breathing with energy that waxed and waned over time in a steady, rhythmic cycle.

It was hers. Nobody was going to come in and tell her what was or wasn't important enough to have in it. Lord Nightmare _didn't care_. As long as she got it herself, as long as it didn't bother anyone, _nobody was going to care_ what she did in her room, with her things, which were _hers_.

Index felt her whole body trembling. She _felt_ the sob come out of her more than she heard it. She was a terrible person, to feel this much relief, this much catharsis, after the extinction of her universe. She could only imagine how much those shreds of code would hate her if given life again.

She didn't have to imagine the look of disappointment on Lord XGaster's face if he could see her now; her memory was acute enough to recreate a 3D model of his remorseless disdain for imperfect creations in immaculate detail.

Index wiped her face, curling her tail tighter around her balled-up body as if that would stop its trembling, as if she could squeeze the weakness and imperfections out if only she tried hard enough.

She knew from experience it would not work. For once, knowing that didn't hurt.

* * *

Index shuffled along the first floor halls (the most dangerous, being where Killer, Dust, and Lord Nightmare himself often lurked on their worst days). She had been fumbling along with the map she had bartered from Cash, a hastily scribbled thing copied from a notebook she had not been permitted to touch. Everything seemed to be in order, although she wondered at the sheer size of the empty castle she now called home.

Index shuffled along in her makeshift booties, just grateful she had something, anything, between her and the cold tiles. She had yet to find a single wall outlet, a single _candle_.

The only major heat source was the oven in the kitchen, and Index was definitively unwelcome there.

The cold was going to be a problem in the long run for her lizard physicality if she did not do something.

Rounding the corner, heading towards the grand entry hall, Index spotted Cross. There was something unsettling about Cross's eyes, even from so far away. The heterochromia aside, just the way his right eyelight glowed was _different_ , was _other_ in a way that Index couldn't put a finger on. The soft orange (for it was orange at the moment, but she had seen it gold, and red, and a darker red that looked like a glowing darkness) shifted like the surface of a fathomless sea, color and dimension that Cross had never been designed to have.

Index knew that: She had seen his creation notes.

Cross smoothed over his kerchief, thumbing at the silver-steel of his chestplate (a strange material, not silver, not steel, so strong and light that Index might have mistaken it for Mythril if she hadn't known it to be fantasy), before disappearing around the corner, headed for the throne room.

Index knew it was a bad idea to follow. She followed anyway.

Cross knock twice on the great double doors. Index heard the echo of each knock before she got to the corner and could peak down the hall. Cross waited, shoulders stiff in that way they got stiff under pressure.

The doors slowly opened, soundless. The inside of the throne room was darker than the rest of the castle, like gazing into a great chasm of void.

Cross entered the darkness, swallowed by it.

Index was too scared to get any closer, uncertain if her presence would be welcome, and what the punishment for being unwelcome would be.

She had heard the stories from Cash and Fell.

The doors did not shut. Index could barely make out the tiniest pinprick of light from the back of the darkness. It was far off, so she could hear nothing of their voices.

She had no warning for what was to come.

* * *

Cross feels the twist of his franken-soul in his ribs, how the energies roil with his every emotion. The grand double doors stand tall and imposing, carved ornately with a large, decorative tree embossed between them, and lined in runic script that Cross can't imagine ever being able to read. After standing there for too long, trying to build up nerve he does not have, Cross knocks twice.

There is a heavy, tense eternity between when the sound fades and the doors slide open, soundless save for a faint shifting of something wet. The room beyond is darker, darker, so much darker than the rest of the castle. He can just make out the gleam of color on the far side of the room, piercing, fathomless emerald in the depths of the dark, watching him, _seeing_ him.

Cross finds himself drawn in, walking as he stares unwaveringly forward.

Then Cross feels the squish of something damp under his boots. He breaks eye contact, looking down to find the floor is flooded in dark, viscous ooze. It is the same slime that Nightmare is always drenched in, enough to come up to his ankles, clinging to his boots as he is forced to wade through the slime.

More slime seeps down the walls, connecting the floor and ceiling in great, wet columns, like mucus in the maw of a great beast.

Cross feels as if he is being eaten alive, walking to his own destruction.

" **And what could you possibly have that was worth disturbing me?** " Nightmare demands, uncrossing and recrossing his legs where he sits on his throne. Cross can see several tendrils curl and twist in the ooze on the floor, cascading down the elevated staircase.

Cross feels his insides twisting up, knotting as if conducted by those same tendrils. He takes another deep breath, and pulls his gaze up from the floor to look at Nightmare in the eye. "i just finished gathering data on-"

Cross sees the tendril snap forward, darting at him like a lunging snake. Cross dodges to one side, but the ooze on the floor makes it impossible to dodge twice, and the second lunge catches Cross by the throat.

" **How dare you come to me looking like that.** " Nightmare snarls, the poison green of his eyelight a narrow, trembling slit. " **Think it a blessing, do you? Think you can show off your blessings without consequences?!** "

Nightmare's voice grows gradually more distant. Cross knows he is kicking, that he is trying to focus enough magic to fight back, but he feels drained. The ooze from the tendril smells acrid and foul, and while his armor and clothes protect him, what splatters on his face burns like acid, like pepper, like choking on chemicals. It makes his sockets water.

His neck aches, and he thinks he hears something start to break.

Cross doesn't even know what he did wrong. He doesn't understand.

" **Do not look at me like that, again,** " Nightmare snarls, right before there is a loud crack, and the darkness grows darker, until Cross can no longer see the void looking back.

* * *

Index flinched at seeing the moving mass of darkness, at the sudden emergence of Lord Nightmare from the depths of his throne room. His eyelight was a sliver of cold, icy blue, jittering with irregular, sickening lurches left and right.

Behind him, Lord Nightmare dragged the limp body of Cross, held in tendrils wrapped around his middle. Cross' head hung limp, his face and bare fingers littered in chemical burns, the bone cracked and discolored.

Lord Nightmare moved with purpose down the hall at alarming speed, passing Index by before she had a chance to run.

When Index was finally able to move, she made herself follow the trail of slime. It led to Cross' personal room, where the door was left slightly ajar. Peeking in through that crack, Index saw Cross had been left in a pile of clothes and blankets he'd made into a bed. Lord Nightmare stood over his body, staring, unnervingly still, even in the limp form of his many tendrils.

Abruptly, Lord Nightmare turned to Index. Index felt herself flinch under his gaze.

" **You.** " Lord Nightmare said, voice heavy with purpose. Index hated hearing it. " **It seems I have another purpose for you.** "

Index gulped. "Y-yes, Lord Nightmare?"

" **Bring your skills as a scribe to bear,** " Lord Nightmare ordered. " **This day, it is time a few... laws... were put to paper.** "

Index summoned her magic immediately, a glowing bit of paper taking shape under her hand. She might have been surprised to still have the skill, if she were not so overtaken with the presence of her new master.

Index was grateful to be so well equipped to follow orders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -kazoo- happy new year!!


End file.
